Yard Beat

Spotted a sturdy dried twig near the hedge and couldn't resist. Right beside a stack of red clay flowerpots sat an overturned aluminum watering can with a broad, flat bottom. Perfect snare. I scooped up the twig, spun it once in my grip, and laid down a lightning-fast sixteenth-note roll across the metal base. The ping was crisp, echoing right off the cedar fence. I shifted accents between the tin rim and the terra-cotta lip next to it, working up an impromptu syncopated groove that rattled a few loose dry leaves off the rim. Now that's what I call a midday jam.