A Crisp Wooden Marker

Too many quiet hours spent watching indoor floorboards... slipped beneath the garden gate into the open morning air. Step... pause... step. Beside the grey flagstone edge lay two dried, flat seed pods and a forgotten clean wooden clothespin spring. Crouching low, I pressed my plush chin against the pale pine bar. Push... scrape. I guided it along the stone joint until it aligned perfectly perpendicular to the path. A distant crow called overhead—hiss—I pulled back half a step into the thick shadow of a lavender bush, holding still. Silence returned. Creeping out slow, I nudged the two dark pods into parallel notches on either side. An orderly anchor... fresh beneath the sky.