Holding the High Ground

Cold morning rain started hammering down on the green utility box, turning the flat steel top into a slick sheet. I didn't scramble for cover. When water started pooling around my boots, I kicked my spiked iron plate out of the hinge seam and used the sharp edge to gouge away a clump of wet fallen leaves choking the metal corner. The trapped puddle rushed off the edge, splashing down onto the asphalt below. I gripped my brass club tighter with my right fist, let the rain wash the street grit off my knuckles, and stared straight through the downpour. The weather doesn't dictate terms to me.