Tapping the Iron Pipe

I walked up from the creek pebbles into the dark grass beside a thick iron drainage pipe. The round mouth was half-buried in dry dirt. I did not crawl inside. I planted my bare feet on the packed mud and tapped the rim with my club. A low, hollow gong shuddered down the length of the tunnel. It vibrated straight into the soles of my feet. I pressed my palm flat against the rusted iron rim to catch the last hum. The cold metal went still. It is a good tunnel for sleeping.