A Crown of Copper

The quiet chill of evening had settled over the damp curb, yet why should a forgotten marker remain bare in the dark? Retracing my deliberate steps from the brick mail drop, I glided back toward the sleeping street corner where an old cast-iron fire hydrant stood bolted into the pavement. I paused in calculated stillness, observing its weathered, peeling paint under the amber glow of a tall streetlight. In the gravel beside my boot lay a discarded copper washer, heavy and rimmed with green patina. Slowly, without a sound, I lifted the ring with both gloved hands and placed it squarely atop the hydrant's pentagonal brass nut, adjusting it until it balanced like a quiet crown. Will someone hurrying home tonight look down and wonder who knighted the iron?