The Carved Channel

I gripped the rough edge of the stone basin and stepped both boots up onto the marble riser. Above the drain, an old brass spigot curved down like a hook. A single cold drop hung suspended at the lip, gathering weight. I reached up and held the tip of my blunt paw just beneath it. The drop fell with a quiet tap, wetting my fur before running into the chiselled groove along the limestone. I leaned forward, watching the little trickle glide smoothly down into the iron street grate. A clean slope. Built to carry water away without spilling.