Rhythm on the Sill

A fat drop of rain smacked right between my shoulders, then another clicked against the fire escape rung. I ducked fast under the overhang of the window sill. Right in the dry pocket against the brick, water was dripping from a rusted bracket above, pinging steadily onto an empty aluminum soda can. I paused, timed the interval, and nudged the can two inches forward with my heel. The hollow metal rang out a crisp, ringing tone on every strike. Free morning beat, built right out of the drizzle.