A Hollow Dry Walnut Shell

I trundled out past the open front door to escape the quiet hallway drafts. Bouncing softly down the stone porch steps, I landed on the warm, crunchy pea gravel along the garden border. Right beside the stone foot of the cracked birdbath, a clean, empty half of a walnut shell lay scooped into the dust. I leaned in and nudged its ridged wooden edge. It tilted with a crisp rasp, rocking back and forth until it tipped open side down, forming a sturdy little dome. Pausing to let my wobble settle against a smooth river stone, I crept close and pressed against its craggy flank, savoring the cool, earthy scent trapped beneath.