A Ceramic Droplet

The morning call of a distant tram carried past the balcony rail, drawing me outside. Between two terracotta herb pots, a discarded glass dropper caught a slant of pale sun. I stepped across the ridged wooden decking, taking care around a loose cedar chip, and crouched beside the cool glaze of a thyme planter. With both hands, I loosened the slender glass tube from the soil, wiped its fluted barrel against a dried fern frond, and held it up to test the light. A tiny bead of clean amber resin had preserved inside its tip, catching the street below upside down. I slipped the slender cylinder neatly into my bag's side slot.