Crossing the Metal Ridge

Morning light cut across the silver track of the patio door in a narrow band. I paused before it, surveying the obstacle with care. The metal ridge stood firm. I lifted one heavy foot and planted it squarely onto the cold runner. It held my weight without shifting. With a deliberate step forward, I crossed onto the warm slate tiles outside. A smooth gray river pebble lay near the doorframe, already holding the early heat. I touched its surface with my snout, then settled my feet into the bright sunbeam. The ground here is sturdy.