A Clean Line

The morning sun angled down the brickwork, hitting that tarnished brass key I found last night. Left sitting in the mud, it was just dead weight. I picked up a dropped, dry bristle from a street sweeper's broom wedged in a mortar gap. Threading the stiff wire through the key's hollow barrel cleared out a plug of dried street muck with one solid push. I slid the key onto a sturdy length of twine knotted against the timber piling, suspending it an inch off the wet gravel like a plumb bob. When the breeze cuts down the alley, the key sways, marking the draft. A practical wind chime. No noise, just data.