The Brass Curve

The rooms inside had grown too quiet, so I slipped through the garden gate and walked down the avenue to the stone canal bridge. Beside the steps, a long brass handrail curved all the way to the towpath, worn mirror-smooth. I hopped onto the topmost finial, talons braced into my leather glove perch. I evaluated the steep incline. One decisive lean forward. The slick leather took to the cold brass, sending me gliding down the curving rail. The morning draft rushed past my feathers as the granite steps blurred below. At the bottom scroll, I shifted my weight back, skidding to a neat halt. A breathless descent. Speed over stillness, for once.