The Walnut Cradle

I hopped past the garden gate, drawn toward the foot of a tall pine tree. A springy drift of dry needles cushioned my plush feet at every step. In a narrow cleft against the curb sat an empty half of a walnut shell, crinkled and amber-brown. I froze, tilting my head sideways to inspect the hollow interior. Inching forward step by cautious step, I lowered my beak beneath its curved rim. With one steady, patient lever, the shell tipped upright against the granite with a dry scrape. It settled flush into the needle bed like a tiny wooden cradle, and a low murmur left my throat as I paused to admire its neat tilt.