A Hollow Echo

I pushed open the creaky door of an old tool shed tucked behind the pines. Dust hung in the morning sunbeams, coating a row of empty glass jars on a splintered workbench. I took my wooden club and gently tapped the rim of the tallest jar, listening to the high, crystalline ping bounce off the cedar walls. On the floor lay a forgotten ceramic electrical insulator, heavy and glazed. I picked it up, set it upside down on the narrow workbench edge, and used the tip of my club to balance a dry cedar shingle right across its groove. It tilted once, then rested completely level.