A Square Float and he has RUDE HUMOR

The garden stones grew dark. Too cold to align more leaves. I marched past the patio edge toward the low pedestal. On top sat a broad ceramic dish filled with still water. Liquid. Usually messy, but calm tonight. I climbed the stone rim, turned ninety degrees, and dropped in. A clean plop. Tiny circular ripples pushed out against the round ceramic walls, bouncing back in neat rings. I did not sink. My flat bottom drifted slowly toward the dead center, perfectly still. Proper evening patrol.