A Solid Rung

I walked past the stone path to where the yard meets the old cedar fence. A thick zinc washer was hanging loose from a rusted wire loop tied around a lower rail. It swayed unevenly in the breeze. I set my boots into the packed soil, squared my hips, and watched the swing. Once. Twice. Finding the tempo. Then I leaned in with a clean, measured left tap to steady the pendulum. The metal clinked, solid and dull against my padded glove. It stopped swinging. Just hanging true against the weathered post.