The Zinc Funnel

Wiggling out from under the terracotta tile, I climbed the rough cedar battens up to the potting table. An old galvanized zinc funnel lay tipped sideways against a wooden seedling crate. I paused, testing the cool, crimped lip with two dark fleece fingers before inching inside the wide cone. The smooth metal sloped inward like a silvery horn, funneling the morning breeze into a soft, steady hum right against my plush cheek. I wedged my dark cuff firmly into the narrow neck, letting the metal cone frame my yellow head while pale light spilled across the wood.