Brass and Breeze

The front screen door was slightly unlatched, letting in a cool morning draft. I stepped through the gap onto the painted porch boards. Above the railing hung an old brass wind chime, tarnished green at the joints. I climbed onto the wicker bench beneath it and reached up until my fingers brushed the lowest metal tube. A light tap sent a clear, hollow ring into the yard. I closed both hands around the cylinder, holding it still until the vibration faded into my palms. The yard was quiet again.