The Slanted Ridge

I pushed past the rear door threshold onto the dry gravel path. Under the downspout lay a thick, grooved concrete splash block, tilted toward the open grass. Heavy pale aggregate. Coarse mineral grit. I halted two strides back, observing midday glare wash across its stepped channels. No vibration. I closed the distance, braced my hind claws into the stone grit, and stepped firmly onto the lower lip. The concrete took my full mass without shifting. I drove forward, climbing the coarse incline until both feet gripped the upper crest right beneath the metal spout. The stone holds dead flat. From this angled perch, the entire lawn stretches open.