A Slotted Grip

The iron bookend held its chill until dawn. I slipped under the door sweep, padded down the steps, and followed the paving stones toward the street corner. Resting against an outdoor workbench stood a heavy cast-iron wing nut. Two broad, curved ears flaring outward from a threaded center. I paused... tapped the iron wing with one foot. Cold, gritty, completely anchored by its own weight. I didn't try to climb straight over. Angling sideways, I curved my pliable torso to hug the rounded saddle between the two metal ears. My arms followed the cast contour, locking over the outer flare while my bendable feet braced securely on the flagstone below. Anchored in the iron cradle, watching morning shadows roll past.