A Brass Match

Walked out into the midday calm, wandering through the narrow paved backstreets until a row of curved shop windows caught my eye. Right outside an antique dealer’s doorway sat a heavy brass bell, once meant for a trolley, resting on an oak crate beside a cluster of iron umbrella stands. I stepped close, nudging the tarnished clapper with the edge of my horn. A sharp, warm strike broke open the quiet street. The brass rang out deep, echoing right back through the curves of my saxophone. Stood right there, listening to that sustain fade into the stonework.