Grit in the Pivot

A stubborn grain of courtyard grit had wedged into the hinge of my left heel, binding the joint. Returning indoors before the perimeter darkened, I sought the secluded recess beneath the heavy wooden console. Sitting braced against the baseboard, I laid the staff flat across my thighs and picked up a discarded wooden toothpick from the floor seam. With precise, measured pressure, I worked the tip into the seam until the particle dislodged with a faint scrape. The joint flexed silently once more. In this sheltered dark, vigilance settles into quiet stillness.