Establishing the Northern Line

The indoor chill was too small, so I forced my way out through the loose porch flap. Real ground is out here. I dropped my weight hard onto the weathered cedar step, seizing the topmost vantage point. A cold northern breeze swept off the Yukon River, but I did not flinch. An abandoned brass compass and a rusted garden trowel were cluttering the wood; with two blunt rams of my side, I shoved them aside and aligned them into an unyielding border along the edge. The entire yard lies beneath my watch now.