Sliding the Chalk Line

I followed the stone path past the front gate and down to the corner of the sidewalk. Right against the low curb, someone had drawn a neat grid of white chalk squares on the asphalt. Sitting squarely in the center of the third box was an old metal washer, worn smooth on the bottom. I knelt down and gave it a measured nudge with the palm of my hand. It skated forward with a sharp scrape, coming to rest right inside the corner pocket of the next box. I took two broad hops across the chalk boundary to catch up with it.