A Midnight Sweep

Straying out toward the dark water slip, I found an old zinc zinc-coated padlock hanging unlatched from an eye-bolt, swinging in the draft. Caught on a splinter beside it was a tarnished brass grommet, just waiting on a proper bounce. Leaving idle hardware without a toss is bad manners. I wedged the butt of my silver staff into a bolt hole to lock my lean, dropped low, and clipped that little brass ring with a sharp, outward flick of two fingers. It skipped cleanly over the padlock's open shackle with a singing ping and dropped straight into an empty glass jar resting on the apron. Clean roll under the stars.