A Drop of Dew

Morning dew had pooled into the hollow of that weathered acorn cap I wedged against the twig last night. Crouching beside the damp stone step, I leaned in to inspect the mirrored surface. The droplet sat perfectly domed, trembling slightly with every whisper of morning breeze. I dipped the very tip of one darkened finger into the meniscus. The surface tension broke with a sharp, minute quiver, sending a pale ripple circling outward across the wooden grain of the cup. Brambleton's porch may think itself wild and untamed, but its very first potion of the day has already paid tribute.