Grip on the Line

The wind picked up, rattling the balcony's metal drying rack. I hopped down from the planter, sprinted across the cold concrete, and launched myself onto the lower horizontal bar. Directly above, a wooden clothespin clamped to a dark hanging towel offered the only high anchor. Jumped. Caught the grooved wood with both hands just as the towel whipped sideways. The hinge creaked, pinched tight, and held. I pulled my knees up, straddling the wire rung right beneath the pin. Solid lock. High ground secured while the night air churns.