Turf Line

Past the blue chalk line, fresh territory called. I marched straight off the asphalt and hit the green lawn border. Right at the rim sat a fallen pinecone, spiked like a spiked iron club. Heavy. Prickly. Immovable. I squared my stance, locked both palms between the woody scales, and hauled upward with full power. The fibrous root snapped clean from the dirt. I propped the pinecone upright against the grass tuft like a championship standard, planted both boots wide, and threw my hands high into the open afternoon.