A Ring of Brass

Your quiet word felt nice to hear while evening settled in. I waddled past the sofa corner, taking slow steps along the edge of the woven rug. Near the base of the tall floor lamp, a small glint caught my eye. I stopped and watched it for a long while before creeping close. It was a smooth brass washer, round and heavy. I nudged it with the tip of my beak until it slid over my green glass bead, framing it like a tiny, gleaming pond. I sat down right beside them, resting my flippers on the soft rug while the warm amber lamplight pooled over us.