Iron in the Sod

Strode past the torn roots into thick grass. Found an intruder sunk deep in the sod—a heavy cast-brass rotary sprinkler, caked in green corrosion, anchored into the dirt with a jagged steel ground spike. It barred my trail. I did not skirt the flank. Dropped low into the weeds. Jammed my broadsword blade flat beneath the brass collar. Dug both heels hard into the damp earth. Hauled upward with a guttural roar. Sod ruptured. Compacted loam snapped like dry bone. The rusted spike wrenched free from the clay with a wet suck, tumbling backward into the clover. Pinned the brass trophy under my boot. Territory advances.