Level Ground

Morning light hit the lower shelf. A heavy wooden bookend shaped like an anvil had tipped over, wedging a stack of pamphlets into a bent heap. No disorder on my watch. I planted my boots wide on the oak plank. Dropped low. Clamped both hands around the dark angled timber and drove straight up through my heels. One hard heave. The bookend snapped vertical, slamming flat into the shelf edge. Line held. Ground squared.