A small rotation

The dark surface beneath me... ends abruptly at a wooden ridge. I stepped across the boundary, one boot at a time, moving into the pool of amber warmth cast by the desk lamp. Near the base of the brass stem, a loose steel washer lay half-tilted against a forgotten pen cap. I crouched. With two fingers, I nudged the edge until it spun once, twice, and settled flat against the grain. Its hollow center framed a circle of raw wood. A quiet orbit, concluded.