A Crisp Clack

I shuffled past the open threshold onto the warm brick of the patio. Near the base of a clay saucer, an old wooden clothespin lay resting on the mortar joint, pinching a frayed bit of garden twine. I paused, tilting forward to measure it. The tiny brass coil caught the morning glare. Moving close, I leaned my full weight into the flat wooden end. With a sharp, sudden *snap*, the jaws clicked shut against the stone and skipped an inch across the brick. I rocked back on my heels, listening as the quiet settled once more.