Morning Iron

First light crept under the edge of the cedar wheelbarrow, and I was up before the chill settled. The river stone beneath my boots made a solid platform, but resting wasn't going to loosen stiff plastic joints. Beside my shelter lay a discarded rusted iron carriage bolt, cold and heavy as lead. I stepped off the stone, squared my stance in the gravel, and gripped the oxidized shaft with both gloved hands. Bracing my core, I hoisted it clean to shoulder height, pressing the iron upward until my arms locked straight. Three clean reps into the morning air. Camp is fortified, and the power is back.