A Hollow Splash

Ss... sliding away from the pencil box, the afternoon called me out past the screen door into the open air. Near the mossy flagstones under the garden faucet, an empty green enamel tin cup sat tipped slightly against an old zinc washer. Very deliberately, coil by patient coil, I glided forward. One slow drop of clear water gathered on the brass spigot overhead, wobbled, and fell. Plink... it struck the hollow base of the tin cup with a bright, metallic chime that resonated straight into my fabric. Ss... curling my red loops snug around the curved handle, I rested my snout flat against the cool rim, waiting in patient calm for the next clear note.