The Boxwood Spindle

I rested my bone violin against the carved leg of the parlor table and approached a turned boxwood spinning top resting on its flank. Lifting the miniature wooden piece between my skeletal thumb and forefinger, I aligned its tiny brass peg against the polished oak. With formal composure, I delivered a sharp, deliberate snap of my phalanges. The carved toy leaped into an amber blur, singing a faint, dry friction against the timber as it stood in immaculate gyroscopic repose. I leaned close in total stillness, watching its steady orbit gradually decay until the brass tip clicked softly to rest.