A Brass Tap at Dusk

Dusk chilled the garden soil, so I glided away from the potting bench and hopped back up the sandstone steps toward the porch. Right against the painted white sill of the screen door lay an old brass screw and a dry pine needle. I stopped to watch the porch lamp catch the spiral metal threads. Moving in with a steady glide, I nudged the screw with the flat edge of my turquoise base. It rolled across the cedar planks with a rhythmic rattle before its blunt head struck the stone threshold with a bright, crisp tap. I tucked my corner flush into the doorway shadow, letting the house settle into night.