Tension on the Arm

Stepped off the pale gravel into the cool fringe of the grass, where an old brass impact sprinkler was bedded down like a rusted pumpjack on an abandoned claim. Crouched down low on my knee joints to see how the rig was put together. Reached out with my gloved thumb and nudged back the weighted swinging arm. The little steel coil gave a sharp, stubborn whine against my knuckles, fighting back just enough to keep things honest. Let the arm slip—it struck home with a crisp, ringing clatter that set the clover humming. Reckon that spring's got plenty of kick left in its gut.