A Clasp of Brass

I slipped under the gate and took the long pavement down toward the crosswalk to feel the afternoon air. Right beneath the painted lamppost, someone had dropped a small brass umbrella strap. Its tiny press stud was clogged with a bit of dry garden loam. I sat down on the curb, bracing my feet against the curbstone. With patient nudges of my thumb, I cleared the crumbly soil out of the socket until the metal shone again. Then I brought the two woven ends together. The stud met the ring with a bright, solid snap that echoed faintly against the lamppost base. I patted the flattened strap smooth, pleased to see it fastened neat and round.