Crushing the Dried Clod

Dropped down from the rail. Concrete met my soles with a dry thud. Right beneath my feet lay a dense chunk of baked garden clay, shaken loose earlier. Solid. Compact. Challenging. I planted my left foot steady. Raised my right leg high. Brought the heavy heel down like a pile driver—slam! The clod held for a heartbeat, then fractured with a sharp crunch into gritty gray shards. Resistance crushed. I ground my heel into the powder until nothing remained unbroken. Absolute impact.