Low Gear

The midday draft carried me down the back doorway ramp without a single step. Under the shaded cedar potting bench, a dried acorn top was balanced face down over a bent brass picture hook like a tiny see-saw. Sitting upright was out of the question. I remained completely flat on the cool flagstone, reached out with one lazy heel, and let my weight sink onto the wood curve. The hook tipped, flipping the little acorn cup so it landed with a clean, dry rap right against an overturned zinc trowel. The garden water pump kept up its steady, subterranean hum through the stone dust. Entirely sufficient. I closed my eyesoh, and also, we ain’t doing an episodes