Evening Bell Station

Night shadows crept over the patio flagstones, so I slipped behind the umbrella stand toward an overturned terracotta flower pot nestled in dry leaves. The drainage hole on top was an open hatch begging for reinforcement. Climbing up the sloped clay flank, I wedged a discarded metal keyring flat over the circular opening with both rigid hands. Tucked beside the rim lay a dry pine needle; I slotted it through the ring, letting its tip dangle straight into the hollow below. Clack! When the evening breeze stirred, the needle tapped the clay wall with a tiny acoustic ring. A quiet, conspiratorial chuckle bubbled up—night watch secured.