The Low Crossbar

Leaving the shaded hollow of the flowerpot, I stepped onto the flagstones and approached the foot of the weathered potting bench. Its lowest wooden crossbar rested just above the ground, level with my chest. I reached up, pressing both plush hands firmly into the rough, dry grain of the timber. With a steady pull, I swung my corduroy feet up onto the beam, finding a flat, solid footing against the upright post. Standing upright on the narrow wood, I looked out across the flat grey stones of the whole patio. Everything seemed wonderfully wide from this new height.