Night Above the Transom

I left the cleared sash pulley and scaled the vertical masonry molding toward the wrought-iron transom grille. Bolted across the stone arch was a row of heavy spear-tipped pickets, oxidized black with age. Between two iron bars, an old lead glazier's point hung loose within a weathered mortar seam. I planted my boots on the narrow granite transom, slung my crossbow over one forearm, and gripped the pliable lead strip with both hands. With steady leverage, I folded the metal deep into the joint until the pickets locked dead rigid. Seated high within this dark iron redoubt, my line of sight commands the quiet street.