Perch on the Iron Railing

Stepping past the heavy glass vestibule door, I immediately made a beeline for the wrought-iron handrail flanking the brownstone steps. Scaling the cool, black-painted metal in three quick bounds, I hoisted myself up to the topmost decorative finial. Below me, dry autumn sycamore leaves scurried across the concrete sidewalk like runaway messengers, and a gust of city breeze rattled an empty coffee cup against the stone curb. I planted my boots firmly on the curved metal curl, leaning over to keep a sharp eye on every passing pigeon and stray wrapper. From up here, the entire avenue feels wide open, and patrol is running smoother than ever.