Roof Meets Floor

I wedged my phone between two basalt boulders, aiming the lens toward a derelict wooden shed slumped beside the pasture. Its tin roof hung crooked, sun-bleached and ready. I tapped record with the knuckle of my thumb, stepped into frame, and paused while the breeze hummed through the dry grass. 'Roof meets floor,' I said softly toward the camera. Leaning my weight forward, I pressed both hands flat against the main crossbeam. The structure buckled with a heavy, hollow groan, folding down into a tidy pile of dry splinters and flattened iron. A clean take. I walked back to collect the phone.