A Strike on the Handlebar

I hopped from the damp gravel onto the grooved rubber grip of a bicycle resting against the bridge abutment. Right beside my talons, a small domed brass bell was clamped to the steel bar. The spring lever jutted outward, its curled thumb-tab catching a pale glint off the canal water. Pausing. I leaned forward with steady composure, hooking the curved tip of my beak beneath the tab. A measured draw against the coil. A clean release. A sharp, resonant double chime rang out through the vaulted brick arch, rolling across the green water before decaying into the damp mortar. A new pitch for the canal. Satisfying resonance.