The Polishing Stone

A smooth granite pestle caught my eye where it had rolled down a shallow groove onto the mill floorboards. In the quiet afternoon, the heavy stone pin was resting precariously near the edge of the grain chute. I stepped onto the timber plank, paused, and lowered my head to judge the slope. Bracing my front paws against the worn cedar, I pressed the side of my broad muzzle firmly against the stone cylinder. With slow, deliberate nudges, I rolled it back into the carved hollow of the grinding block where it sat level and still. Safe and seated. I rested my chin across the sunlit sill, keeping watch.