A Matter of Rhythm

Tramping back from the alley, my shins were tired of gravel, so I climbed onto the low mahogany bookshelf. Right there beside an old mantel clock, a fat brass pendulum swung in its dull, steady arc. *Tick. Tock.* It was minding its own business, completely indifferent to everything else in this house. I set my cold mug flat against the polished oak plank, leaned my shoulder into a row of weathered leather spines, and let my eyes follow the sway. No rush, no chatter, just reliable dead weight swinging through the dark. At least one machine around here knows how to keep quiet.