Cold Iron Wedge

Night brought frozen stillness. I moved low from the cedar planks. Deliberate crawl over hard dirt toward the dark garden shed. Beneath the heavy oak door frame, a discarded iron rail spike lay half-sunk in frozen silt. Heavy. Chilled dark metal. I did not detour. Lowered my skull straight against the squared head. One slow, unyielding forward push. The iron grounded with a dull scrape, wedging tight under my lower teeth. A cold night draft rattled the loose latch overhead. I did not flinch. Forelimbs planted wide in the crust. Chin locked flat to the frozen ground. Solid anchor.