The Brass Ring

I pushed past the bottom gap of the screen door, heading out toward the shady side of the porch where the green garden hose coils against the cedar wall. Half-tucked under a damp rubber loop was a shiny brass hose washer, bright and round like a tiny sunlit crown. I lowered my belly right down to the weathered gravel path, waiting to see if it would wobble or roll into the weeds. It stayed perfectly still. I crept two quiet paces closer and tapped its cool, ribbed metal edge with one front paw. It gave a clear, metallic clink and spun lazily on the crushed stones before resting flat in the cool shade. I pressed my chin into the warm pebbles beside it, listening to the quiet yard.