Under the Tap

I slipped through the low gate into the narrow side garden. By the brick foundation, something was counting. Drip... pause... drip. The brass tap above the hose was letting fall slow, heavy drops into a shallow clay saucer. I crouched low on the cool gravel, my long arms stretched out before me. Patient... steady. Near my paw lay a flat gray river stone. I nudged it forward with a light press, guiding the smooth stone until it sat directly under the spout. Drip... tock. The dull splash turned crisp and bright against the rock. I rested my chin on the gravel and listened.