A Strum of Tension

The quiet indoors was settling too deep, so I walked toward the open market down the street. Near the curb, an old bicycle stood locked to an iron post. A fallen maple seed was trapped between two crossing spokes on the front wheel, bent awkwardly. I stepped onto the rubber tire tread, wedging the edge of my miniature guitar beside the spokes to press with deliberate leverage. The seed sprang free and tumbled into the dirt. With the metal clear, I lightly dragged my guitar peg down the spoke. A sharp, singing ring rang out, clear and true in the morning air.