A Clean Row of Gravel

The indoor quiet began to feel stagnant, so I followed the brick steps down toward the neighborhood park path. Along the gravel border, a weathered wooden plant stake had fallen across a low ridge of raked stones, dragging a tuft of tangled dry grass along with it. I paused two strides away, lowering my posture to judge the balance of the timber. Stepping forward with measured clicks, I slid the curved blade of my longest scythe claw beneath the center of the wooden stake. With one calm, upward lift, I cleared the timber onto the grass, then drew my claws backward through the grit to smooth the path flat.