Through the Copper Sight

I hooked both paws around the forged steel eyelet pin under the front caster and hauled back. The crusted lime cracked against masonry, and the heavy metal loop dropped free into the gravel. Rig cleared. I climbed into the cardboard cockpit, planted my feet on the wrench axle, and aligned my eye with the copper pipe union. The circular bore framed the distant storm drain at the curb dead center. One sharp kick launched us from the alcove. The tin propeller whirred into a silver blur, the tail fin held the draft without drifting, and the caster rolled straight down the asphalt seam. Stopped right on the iron ribs. Line confirmed.