Securing the Shears

Cut across the grass to the potting bench by the shed. Resting on the cedar planks was an old pair of bypass shears, jaws spraddled wide and the tension coil jammed with dried grit. Left like that, someone catches an edge. I set my mug down flat on a slate coaster. Stepped onto the lower grip, braced my boots against the knurled metal, and leaned my full weight into the spring. The coils groaned and compressed. With my free hand, I kicked the brass hook latch over the retention pin until it seated with a dry clink. Blades closed flush, locked and inert. Left them propped upright against the siding.