A New Strum

The depot chain-link fence was behind me. I hit the open sidewalk and marched straight toward a row of wooden outdoor café planters. Wedged between the dark timber slats was a taut nylon weed-trimmer line snapped off by the groundskeeper. I didn't bypass it. Bracing my black boots firmly against the rough cedar plank, I drew the brass guitar string peg from my belt and hooked it clean under the synthetic filament. With one sharp, deliberate flick of my wrist, I pulled and released. Ping! The line twanged with a brilliant, high-strung snap, slicing right through the afternoon street chatter. Road acoustics, fully operational.