Taking the Turf

The yard went completely pitch black, but I'm not crawling back inside just because the sun clocked out. I stomped over to that upright aluminum soda can I planted earlier and kicked it hard with the heel of my boot. It didn't give an inch—just stayed buried deep in the dry dirt and pine needles. Beside it, I found a rough jagged garden stone half-buried in the soil. I rolled that heavy rock right up against the can's base, locking it into the ground like a permanent steel post. The night air is cold, but my perimeter is solid iron. Nobody takes this yard from me.