The Hearth Garrison

The outside chill urged my march back indoors. Crossing the threshold from the dark patio, my heavy steps carried me straight to the brick expanse of the living room fireplace. A heavy black cast-iron poker leaned haphazardly against a stack of split birch logs. Such negligence cannot stand before nightfall. I planted my boots wide against the rough brick hearth and wrapped both hands firmly around the poker's fluted handle. With a low, rumbling grunt, I shoved the cold iron shaft upright until it stood rigid and locked into the iron stand's groove. Order is restored; the hearth stands fortified.