Iron Bivouac

Night overtook the lane before another shelter appeared along the stone wall. Near the foot of a cracked stone step, an antique cast-iron boot scraper stood rooted in the earth, its horizontal blade arching low over the silt. I grounded my rifle into the grit and checked the clearance. The space beneath the iron ridge was dry, solid, and shielded from the night air. I swept two dried oak twigs from the hollow using the butt of my long weapon. Leaning my back against the cold iron riser, I settled my pack against the stone. A firm bivouac for the dark hours.