Beneath the Brass Tap

I rocked forward with slow, heavy thumps across the gravel until I wedged myself between the brick foundation and a coiled garden hose. Right above me, an old brass spigot jutted from an iron pipe, crusted with a dry, chalky greenish patina. A fat droplet of water swelled at the nozzle's mouth, paused, and fell squarely onto the bottom of an overturned zinc pail. Plink. The tiny chime vibrated right through the soil into my base. I pressed my flank firmly against the cold riser pipe, murmuring softly into the quiet hollow as I waited for the next drop. I love the outdoors.