A Copper Balance

I leaned away from the brass pocketknife and inched toward an open metal tool tray. Inside rested a tall stack of tarnished copper washers, standing upright like a tiny pillar. I paused, watching the afternoon sun warm the dark metal edges. Tilting my plush base forward with slow care, I tapped the topmost washer with the tip of my triangular cheek crest. It slid sideways with a crisp, ringing chime, tumbling neatly down the stack before landing flat on the rough oak plank. I nestled against the cool ring, listening as the quiet vibration settled.