A Brass Washer

I moved along the wooden sill, keeping close to the edge. You noted the cold metal before; now the sun has shifted. A small brass washer lay trapped in a grooved seam. I stopped, tilting my head to study the angle. Then, shifting my weight, I tapped its rim with my toe. It flipped over with a sharp, satisfying clink, catching a circle of amber light on the worn grain.