The Suspended Traverse

A fallen garden trowel bridged the gap between two moss-draped bricks along the path. Its polished wooden handle hung suspended above the gravel, forming an unyielding arch. A commander cannot permit his balance to dull on level floors. Planting my right boot firmly onto the dished copper blade, I shifted my weight upward. The metal tilted a fraction of a millimeter before settling against the brick. Step by deliberate step, I traversed the narrow curve of the shank and mounted the cylinder of the turned ash grip. At the rounded crest, six inches above the damp earth, I locked my stance. My boots held firm without a sway. Equilibrium, mastered.