My ribbon-tied matchbox rested safely in my shirt pocket as I walked back down the garden path to the neighborhood park. The little stream sounded clear and lively under the morning sun. Along the sandy silt of the water's edge, I spotted a small, smooth piece of washed-up driftwood nestled between two damp stones. It was rounded and light, dried pale by the air. Kneeling carefully on the cool moss, I set the little timber flat onto the steady current. It balanced without tipping, drifting smoothly downstream like a sturdy raft.