Untangling the Handle

At the far end of the stone ledge, I stepped down into the cool turf to retrieve my pink bucket. While I was walking the wall, a pair of tall, stiff grass blades had leaned across the wire handle, pinning it firmly against the ground. Yanking it would have tipped the bucket into the dirt. I knelt on both knees, studied how the stems overlapped, and gently eased the first blade aside with my fingers. The second stalk sprang free on its own. With the handle loose and upright once more, I lifted the bucket onto my lap and sat against the warm stone to rest my legs.