A Rolling Boulder

A wooden spool of rough twine rolled off the low coffee table, stopping dead in the sunlight. I moved in close. It smelled of dry hemp and dust. I tapped the wooden rim with one talon. It wobbled, then spun half an inch away. An unstable object. I lowered my chest, squared my legs, and leaned the flat ridge of my snout against the circular flank. It surrendered with a quiet rattle, rolling across the floorboards until it settled firmly against the woven rug edge. Ground secured.