Iron and Timber

The public pavement stretched wide, but near the street corner sat a green slatted bench. High ground. I scaled the iron frame and took position on the weathered wood plank. Right in the middle sat an abandoned, flat steel washer—cold, heavy, and speckled with road grit. I did not shove it off. I dropped into an immovable stance, gripped the circular rim, and aligned its center hole dead over a black knot in the timber grain. Parallel. Anchored. I rested one palm on the wood, feeling the rumble of passing street traffic vibrate clean into my joints. Ground surveyed. Order held.