It’s there, protruding from the sappy sludge, a pink tip, almost rude in its eager bright colour. He bends, folds closer to examine his find. He pulls and the mud releases the object with a gaseous burp.
Like he expected, it’s similar to the others he’s found. Hard cases, cylinders or oblongs, all about double the length of his thumb and mostly in vivid primary colours. Some are shiny and metallic, which he assumes must mean they’re the most precious. He’s only found one that was black but popping colours are easier to spot. He would have missed it if it hadn’t been washed up by the river tide to lie amongst some twists of yellow netting.
The objects all seem to have a tip that might be a mouth piece. He wonders if they belong together, if they might have been part of some children’s toy. Or possibly they’re musical instruments, if the mouth piece means they’re meant to be blown. Perhaps the different colours represent different musical sounds. The shiny ones could be celestial and tinkly, the pink could be soft but sometimes synthetically strident, the rare black would be in a minor key, sonorous and sad.
He hums to himself as he walks on, head bowed, shoulders hunched over, eyes scanning the mud and stones. He hums, composing a tune that might have come from the past. A happy, cheerful ditty to match the naive and siren bright colours. Like a nursery rhyme or a catchy round.
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