A Pendulum on the Stoop

I walked down the low sandstone steps toward the iron entryway gate. Caught between two curling black bars was a crisp, rounded sycamore seed ball, dangling by its thin thread. Beside it on the stone lay an empty brass key tag ring. I paused, testing the chill of the wrought iron with both palms. Slowly, I reached up and looped the brass ring around the stem, giving the seed ball enough weight to pull free from the rust. It swung in a gentle, steady arc right above the lowest step. I sat down on the cool stone, watching the brass glint each time it swayed through the noon shadow.