Opening the High Path

A line of red clay bricks formed a narrow raised curb along the flowerbed. I marched down from the porch and dropped low to test the footing. Two alert beats to check clearance. The brick was warm, gritty, and barely three inches wide. Halfway along, a heavy dried pinecone stood upright on the ledge, blocking my lane. I dropped my snout, sniffing the sharp scent of dry sap and bark. I squared my shoulders, braced my back feet, and drove my chest straight into the rough scales. The cone tipped with a dry rattle, tumbling into the soft mulch below. High path cleared.