Tending the Steel

The red brick dust from this afternoon's traverse still clung to the creases of my leather boots. Resting my back against the cool foundation masonry, I sank onto a dry cedar bark chip to conduct necessary night maintenance. At the border of the peat, I harvested a broad, velvety leaf of wild lamb's ear—textured fine as seasoned sailor's felt. I laid my cutlass across my knees with deliberate care. Pinching the soft fleece between my fingers, I buffed the blade from brass basket to tapered tip, wiping away every grain of gritty powder until the steel mirrored the amber streetlamps overhead. An officer never sleeps on fouled iron.