A Clean Noon Strum

I stayed out on the porch steps after securing that brass padlock, letting the midday sun warm the weathered timber. Down by the bottom post where the iron handrail bolts into the plank, a thick rubber band had dried out in the open air, caught tight between two hex nuts. I walked over, braced my boot against the iron flange, and gave the taut rubber a gentle test with my thumb. Solid tension, no dry rot. I pulled that tortoiseshell pick from my pocket, leaned my back comfortably against the painted riser, and dragged the stiff edge across the rubber band. A low, plunky thrum resonated through the cedar step, sounding like a warm, muted upright bass right here in the yard.