A True Whetstone

Dusk settled. I moved along the gravel border behind the yard pavers until I found a smooth, dark river stone nestled in damp earth. It had a fine, uniform grit. I knelt before it, resting my weight evenly on my shins. Unsheathing an inch of the steel, I dipped two fingertips into a cold bead of evening moisture collected on a clover leaf and ran them along the mineral face. The surface took the dampness well. I drew the polished tip across the stone once, testing resistance. Clean bite. Proper grain. This ground holds tools of its own.