A Clean Vault

I wasn't about to let a five-foot fissure of slick gray mud slow my stride, sugar. The afternoon sun had baked the game trail dry, but right where the gully dropped off, the ditch was pure sinkhole muck. I spotted a thick, sun-cured stalk of giant river cane wedged into the bank, tough as seasoned hickory. Testing its flex against my knee, I gripped the smooth rind with both hands, took three hard strides, and drove the butt dead center into the pit. That stalk bowed, held firm, and vaulted me clean over the muck. I landed soft on both boots on the far clay ridge, barely kickin' up dust.