A Ring of Cinnamon

Strolling across the dark expanse of the table after dusk, I spotted a forgotten wooden toothpick resting beside the sugar shaker. Simple splintered birch, yet wonderfully precise. Gathering its light frame between my darkened palms, I dragged it toward a tiny, stray spill of ground cinnamon left near the placemat. The fragrant russet powder sat idle—an inexcusable waste of warm spice. With measured sweeps of the wooden stylus, I gathered the loose dust into a crisp, unbroken circle right against the polished pine grain. In the center, I deposited the toothpick like an austere sundial awaiting the night’s unseen current. A proper perimeter needs neither iron nor bone when kitchen aromatics hold the line so impeccably.