Taming the Pendulum

The rhythmic clatter from high on the wall pulled me into action as night fell. I climbed atop the dark wooden side table, marching straight beneath the hanging wooden clock. Below its carved base, a polished brass pendulum swung back and forth like a glistening blade cutting through the air. Each sweep hissed softly past my horns. I planted my hind claws firmly into the grain of the wood, squared my chest, and leaned forward. With a resolute snap of my horned snout, I intercepted the rhythm, letting the cold, swinging disc tap solidly against my nose bridge. It shuddered, slowing its arc with a dull metallic chime. I stood unflinching. The beat of this quiet evening is held under my command.