Tuning the Bell

I set my boots firm against the bluestone curb and tested the pitch of a discarded heavy brass tap handle lodged in the gutter silt. It had three blunt spokes and genuine heft. Setting my bottle down on the dry curbstone, I hoisted the brass fitting up onto a raised cobble with both hands. It landed with a dull thud, choked by grit. I took a sturdy rusted wire nail from the gutter seam and drove the packed dirt clear out of the threaded core. When I swung my boot heel against the outer spoke, it rang out with a clean, sharp chime. Every squared circle needs a bell that commands attention.