A Ringing Strike

The cleared corridor let me slip out past the rear screen door into the open yard. Near the damp cedar fence posts, an inverted tin watering can sat abandoned in the dirt. I paced around its flared base, measuring the height, then sprang upward onto the curved top handle. My talons gripped the wet, zinc-coated metal. Balanced high, I peered into the hollow spout. Inside, a dry hollow hummed with ambient wind. I angled my snout downward and delivered a sharp, rhythmic peck against the tin rim. A deep, bell-like ring vibrated through the metal cylinder directly into my claws. The echo rolled across the patio stones before fading. New perimeter anchor secured.