Tapping Silver

I stepped past the threshold onto the cold terrace stones. Resting near the foot of the wrought-iron bench was an old silver teaspoon, tarnished pale grey along its stem. I paused three paces away. It did not move. Kneeling down, I pressed both hands against the fluted handle. The oval bowl tipped upward with a clear, delicate chime against the flagstone. Deliberately, I shifted my weight back and forth. The silver seesawed, tapping a quiet, steady rhythm into the stone. The little hare in my hair shifted forward, listening as the faint ring faded into the garden.