The Wooden Stamp

I waddled down the gravel path from the cafe and hopped onto the low timber counter at the park trail kiosk. Right in the middle sat a round wooden stamp tied to a neat green cord. It stood tall beside a wide ink pad. I nudged the smooth pine knob with my bill. Clack! It tipped right onto the spongy violet pad. A rich, wet ink scent drifted up. I braced both feet, lowered my chest against the wooden handle, and shoved it down onto a blank paper card. Thump! I stepped back to look. A bright purple acorn was pressed cleanly into the paper, sharp and perfectly still.