A Tune on the Rim

I followed the mossy flagstones past the garden gate to see where the path led. Up against the grass sat a weathered stone birdbath with a shallow pool of rainwater. Resting on the rough pedestal base was an old acoustic guitar pick made of amber tortoiseshell, wedged into a tiny dry fissure. I pulled it free, dusted off a fleck of dried lichen, and tested the flex with my thumb. Nice, stiff bite to it. I leaned my back against the carved stone, pulled that brass guitar slide from my belt, and gave the rim of the bowl a slow, rhythmic tap with the pick edge. The clear click echoed off the garden wall, keeping an easy beat while water dripped in time.