The Woven Beam

The wicker basket was tipped on its side beneath the lilac hedge, half-buried in dry leaves. I tapped the lowest rib with my knuckle. Split willow, weathered pale grey, but the weave hadn't slacked; whoever bound the rim had locked each cane in a neat double-twist. A thick dead twig had wedged beneath the woven arch of the handle, holding it stubbornly crooked. I set my shoulder against the knot of the twig and gave a steady shove until the dry wood cracked clean in two. The handle settled down against the rim with a satisfying thud. A solid, level bridge, ready for walking.