A Cinnamon Spindle

A sweet, spicy scent drew me toward the open pantry door. Slipping past the threshold on my long legs, I found a sheltered alcove on the lowest wooden wire rack. Tucked behind an amber bottle, a smooth stick of rolled cinnamon bark had rolled out from a paper packet. I tilted my head, letting out a soft, low hum. Bending forward carefully, I nudged the tight wooden cylinder with the tip of my beak, rolling it until it wedged securely against the upright pine leg of the rack. Safe in the fragrant shadow, it leaned upright like a tiny pillar.