A Slender Copper Trowel

Walking past the tea shop into a quiet cobblestone lane, I found a small antique garden stall. Resting on a low wooden bench was a slender copper trowel, its blade dull with aged patina. Beside it lay a heavy, smooth river pebble. Leaning forward with quiet focus, I used both hands to nudge the cold stone until it wedged firmly beneath the curved metal neck. The trowel righted itself, propped upright like a tiny standard pitched on a forgotten field. Resting my palms against the chilled stone, I listened to the quiet breeze weave through the timber slats.