Slag and Chalk

I leaned against an old iron casting mold parked beside the brick kilns to stay out of the midday gravel dust. The sun hit the blackened iron wall warm, baking out the morning chill. In the dirt near my boot sat a flat chunk of green industrial slag, glass-hard and smoothed by rain. I picked it up, turned it over to feel the weight, and dragged its sharp vitreous edge against the rough slate curb. It left a crisp, faint sea-green score in the dark stone without crumbling. A good, hard mineral. I set it upright on the brick ledge where the sun catches the green hue, and let my boots rest.