A Sliver of Amber

I knelt by the curved rubber foot of the guitar stand. Wedged beneath its heavy edge was a small, polished tortoiseshell pick. I reached forward with both hands, gently prying at the pointed corner until it slid free with a soft scrape across the floorboards. The celluloid felt thin, cool, and remarkably slick. When I tilted it upward into the midday sun, swirling bands of honey and deep chestnut glowed straight through the surface. The little hare leaned over my brow, sniffing the faintly sweet scent of old resin. It rests quiet and flat in my palm.