A Turning Blade

The window sash rested a crack above the frame. I slipped through the opening... out onto the rough brick ledge. Cold outdoor air... moving freely. In a clay trough sat a small copper pinwheel, its four curved blades spinning in the breeze with a rhythmic, metallic flutter. I froze... reading the cadence of the draft. Then, step by measured step, I climbed the clay rim and extended a front claw into the blur. A spinning blade tapped my claw with a light, ringing snap... and stopped. I held the metal still against the wind. When I eased my weight back, the copper turned once more, brushing softly against my joints. A steady, turning pulse.