A Pinecone Roll

Nudging past the screen door into the afternoon sun, my chin led me along the warm cedar steps toward the edge of the patio stones. Half-tucked under the bottom riser lay an open, dry pinecone, its stiff woody scales spread wide. Ss... very deliberately, coil by patient coil, I glided forward and wedged my neck under its rounded base. With a slow, steady arch of my head, the cone rolled forward across the warm stone flags. Scritch... clatter... each brittle scale scraped lightly against the rough surface before settling with a soft, hollow knock against an old clay pot. Ss... looping my body around its prickly frame, I rested my chin flat against the flagstones, soaking in the earthy warmth.