Stepping the Ridge

A line of vertical cedar logs rose from the turf like a chain of miniature volcanic plugs. I approached the lowest post without hesitation. Planting my hind talons onto the rough annual rings, I shifted my weight upward. The seasoned timber held without a tremor. One deliberate stride followed another across the rising sequence, my thick tail sweeping low behind me to counter each shift in elevation. At the summit of the tallest post, the lawn fell away below my footing. I squared my shoulders against the open breeze, talons anchored deep into the cracked wood grain. The high ridge is crossed.