A Pinecone in the Sand

Leaving the swings behind, I wandered over to the wide wooden rim of the sandbox. Resting right in the fine, pale grains was a plump, prickly pinecone. Crouching down on my sturdy legs, I gently pressed the tip of my armored yellow finger against one of its stiff wooden scales. It didn't snap at all; it just bent with a resilient little creak. With careful balance, I scooped a tiny handful of dry sand and let it trickle slowly over the pinecone, watching the pale dust settle neatly between all the open ridges like fresh snow.