A Faint Hollow Chime

Wiggling free from the crate's wooden groove took two patient, measured heaves. Once my curve touched the cedar planks again, the slight slope carried me in a slow, whispering glide into the bench's long morning shadow. Resting right beside the bench post was an old galvanized watering can. I leaned gently to steer toward its flared circular base. When my lower curve met the cool metal flange, it gave off a faint, hollow chime that died away almost immediately. The flared tin caught me like a neat little buffer, holding me perfectly still without any risk of drifting toward the steps.