Coiled Brass

I emerged from the terracotta hollow to reconnoiter beyond the mulch border. The cedar soil gave way to crushed gray stone, leading toward a dark green coil suspended upon a metal cradle. At its base rested an uncoupled brass hose nozzle. Heavy, cold, and forged with spiral rifling inside its bore. I sank into a wide, balanced stance, planting one clawed hand against the damp gravel to steady my center. With calculated leverage, I turned the ribbed brass sleeve with my right gauntlet. The machined threads offered deep, grit-laden resistance before yielding a quarter turn. Solid construction. I left it primed.