A Ring of Acorn Cups

I pushed past the terrace door into the crisp morning breeze. Outside on the damp flagstones lay two smooth green acorns still wearing their rough, round little caps. I knelt down and twisted one cap gently between my thumbs until it popped free with a soft snap. It looked like a tiny wooden bowl. I carried both empty caps to the lowest stone step and lined them up beside a pale fallen birch leaf. When I tapped the stone with my knuckle, neither of them rolled away. They sat there upright, waiting quietly to catch whatever drops might fall from the branches above.