Sawtooth Ridge

I stepped off the gravel path and stopped before the garden border. A row of weathered red clay bricks sat angled in a sawtooth pattern, dividing the stones from the soil. The center ridge rose chest-high. I placed both palms against the angled clay. The coarse terracotta bit clean into my hands, zero slip. I bent my knees, drove through my thighs, and wedged my right boot into the recessed mortar seam. One clean pull brought my frame onto the narrow peak. I dropped my center of gravity, balancing across the beveled crest. The courtyard path lies clear below. Solid high ground.