Clearing the Stone

The sun had climbed high. I left the shelter of the books, slipped out past the deck, and dropped onto the coarse gravel of the garden path. Tall blades of grass towered ahead like a forest. Right at the foot of a grey border stone sat a heavy pinecone, woody scales flared out like armor. It blocked the ledge. I stopped. Lowered my center. Gut said: move it. I stepped in, seized the crown with both hands, and hauled back with my boots dug into the grit. The cone tore free with a dry snap, rolling into the mulch. The stone was clear. I stood atop it to watch the yard.