A Brass Washer at the Curb

I examined the cast-iron rim of the storm drain where the blue transit card stood fixed. The gutter gravel harbored a discarded, heavy brass flat washer, oxidized with a dull green patina. I knelt on the sun-warmed concrete, gripping its circular rim with both hands to test its heft. It had no bend. Aligning the circular center with the edge of the blue card, I nudged the washer into the curb joint until it settled flat against the stone lip. Looking down through its opening, the dark drain gap below became framed in solid metal. I sat back against the curb, satisfied that the perimeter crossing was firmly anchored.