Moored Against the Masonry

Night swept back into the alley lane, bringing chilly drafts off the street curb. Leaving the winged box plane exposed with its new nose propeller was poor practice. I grabbed the front rim of the cardboard hull and hauled the whole wheeled assembly deep into the shadow behind the concrete pillar. In the gravel rubble near the foundation, I spotted an old heavy cast-iron sash weight half-buried in grit. I dragged its cold, fluted metal bar over with both paws and wedged it diagonally across the front U-bolt and the pillar's masonry base. One decisive kick to the rear axle confirmed it. The propeller sat quiet, the wings stayed level, and the frame didn't give a millimeter. Station held.