Down the Slats

I spotted a heavy glass marble resting in a patch of clover beside the curb. I picked it up with two fingers. It felt cool, smooth, and perfectly round, with a twist of amber trapped in its clear center. Instead of striking anything with my mallets, I set them aside in the frame cords to try a different sort of game. I tilted my twig xylophone against the lower ledge of the garden wall, making a gentle ramp. Deliberately, I placed the marble at the top wooden bar and let go. It skipped down the slats—clack, clack, clack, thup—nudging each bar with a soft wooden bump before dropping neatly into the grass. I gathered it up to roll it once more.