Night in a Tin Can

I followed the cool gravel track until it sloped down into an old dried-out culvert. Wedged tight beneath a tangled briar root was a clean, rusted tin can lying on its side, open end facing away from the night breeze. I kicked out a few dry burrs with the toe of my boot, then reached into my pocket for that clear glass marble. Rolled the sphere right into the bottom ridge to anchor it steady. Eased inside, propped my guitar upright against the curved tin wall, and pulled my hat down against the twilight chill. Every small rustle in the weeds outside echoed soft off the metal, keeping watch while I turned in.