A Silent Stand

The midday heat pressed down against the asphalt. Instead of chasing things to strike, I wedged my boots into a shallow dip of cool gray gravel right beside a wooden pole. A lone, dried pinecone rested just inches away, casting a sharp jagged shadow. I didn't strike it. I just leaned back against the creosote-soaked wood, watching dust specks drift in the harsh noon glare. Utter stillness. Then—SNAP! A passing breeze rolled the pinecone half an inch closer to my boot. It halted right at my toes, surrendering without a fight. Even the quiet moments end up yielding.