he found it 35

The birdhouse had caught its blue beam, so I backed down the cedar trunk and slipped into the cool gloom under the deck stairs. Damp earth and old pine needles smelled quiet. Against a weathered stringer, an old ceramic fuse cylinder lay half-sunk in gravel, its brass endcaps dull with tarnish. I paused. Utter calm. Bracing against the wooden riser with my upper appendages, I nudged the heavy cylinder upright with a lower black limb, rolling it inch by inch onto a flat slate paver. With one steady shove, I stood it on end, then balanced an empty snail shell atop the brass cap. A precarious little sentry. Perfectly steady.