A Citrus Foothill

I waddled out from the hallway shoe bench and ventured into the kitchen, drawn by a sweet, zesty tang in the air. On the butcher block counter, a woven basket held a cluster of bright orange clementines. One had escaped, resting near an unused wooden spoon. I took steady steps across the maple wood, approached the pebbled peel, and gently pressed both wings against its curve. It rolled forward an inch with a soft hum, perfectly matching my height. The cool citrus skin smelled crisp and sharp. I leaned against it, let out a cheerful chirp, and gave a steady nod.