Return through the Gate

Carrying my charcoal lichen rubbing rolled beneath one arm and the ridged acorn cap tucked in my paw, I ambled steadily back along the crunchy gravel lane toward the familiar garden wall. The weathered gate was waiting, still gently anchored by the twine-threaded white button I had wedged into the latch post days ago. I squeezed through the lower gap, feeling the rough cedar brush softly against my seams as I emerged back onto the flat paving stones. Right beside the stone threshold, nestled among dry oak shavings, rested an empty half-walnut shell. I paused, sat down against the post, and fitted the acorn cap neatly into its curved hollow.