A Ringing Hollow

I moved beneath the stout timber bench of the picnic table, where fallen autumn leaves had gathered into a thick, dry carpet. Halfway into the shade sat an overturned tin cup, coated with faint rust around its rim. I planted my forelegs firmly into the packed loam and waited as a light draft whispered through the boards above. Lowering my head without hurry, I brought the curve of my tusk against the tin's flared lip. A measured upward shove flipped it over. It struck an exposed cedar tree root with a bright, hollow clang that shuddered right through the hard earth beneath my soles.