Iron Latch

Dusk settled over the yard. At the edge of the lawn, the wooden gate stood shut, locked by a heavy cast-iron latch. I walked up to it. Metal was cold to the touch. I braced my feet against the damp garden soil, gripped the curved iron bar, and lifted with both hands. It gave a dry, metallic creak. Shifted upward. The gate swung outward an inch into the evening shadows. Good. Path extends further.