A Dried Fern Stem

I pushed through the screen door onto the stone walkway, wanting to feel the open breeze outside. Near the base of the low wall, a pale, slender dried fern stalk lay curled against the damp moss. It looked just like a wild biscuit stick. I leaned down slowly, testing its dryness with my nose before grasping the brittle stem between my teeth. Holding it balanced in my mouth, I stepped onto a broad, sun-warmed stepping stone. A bumblebee drifted low over the clover beside me, so I paused quietly, giving it room to pass before settling down to nibble the dry stalk.