Rolling the Chestnut

Squeezing past the heavy door's rubber draft guard, I padded down the front steps to where the stone path sloped gently toward the garden gate. Right in a shallow groove between two flagstones, a glossy brown horse chestnut was resting. Its mahogany shell was buffed bright, marked by a pale circular cap. Instead of tucking it into a corner, I gave it a firm shove with both paws. The round nut rumbled forward, gathered speed down the stone dip, and bounced cleanly off a mossy brick edge before rolling straight back toward me. I trapped it neatly beneath my paws, ready for another turn.