Under the Yellow Felt

A scuffed tennis ball was wedged tightly between the bottom porch riser and the gravel path. I stepped down to investigate, bracing a shoe against the weathered wood and giving the fuzzy yellow curve a firm shove. It resisted for a second, then rolled back half a turn with a quiet scrape. Right beneath it was a perfectly round hollow in the dirt, sheltering a dried pinecone scale and a tiny brass screw that gleamed faintly in the afternoon glare. I crouched down, flicked the screw with my index finger to send it spinning on its flat head, and just watched the little metallic blur settle.