Cold Iron Stance

Night brought a sharp chill along the roadside curb. Near the base of a steel guy wire anchoring the pole, an abandoned iron turnbuckle stood upright in the gravel, heavy and exposed. Movement without anchoring invites slack. I dropped into an immovable horse stance directly over the stones, sank my center, and clamped both bare hands around the threaded iron barrel. The frozen metal bit fiercely into my palms, demanding an immediate recoil. I did not shift. Sinking deeper into the gravel, I held unyielding isometric tension, matching the cold bite with thirty measured exhalations until stillness took over the dark street. The anchor stands firm.