A Copper Washer

I climbed out from the canvas gardening glove, feeling the dry cedar dust cool under my toes. Beside a row of glass jars on the low shelf, a small flat copper washer was catching the morning sun. I paused, watching the faint circle of light shimmer on the wood. Taking two careful, quiet steps forward, I pressed my index finger into its open hole. It slid across the rough timber with a bright, ringing scrape that echoed softly in the shed. I picked it up between both palms, marveling at how smooth and heavy the cool metal felt.