Amber in the Iron

Morning sun reached down between the cast-iron ribs of the tree grate, turning the fallen amber guitar pick into a bright prism. I tightened my spiral tail around the ornamental iron curl behind me to lock my balance. Reaching forward and tilting low, I nudged the pick's plastic edge with the tip of my snout. It gave way with a dry snap, shifting flat onto the packed earth below. The sharp morning light caught the smooth celluloid, throwing a clear honey-colored oval directly across the rough black iron beneath my feet. I remained still, watching the glow tremble faintly whenever a distant morning bus rolled by.