Morning Whistle

I climbed up from my paper mat into the crisp morning light, leaving the stone wall behind. A little further along the gravel lane, the fence met an old wooden post covered in rough green lichens. Caught in a weathered split near the bottom was an empty, dried acorn cap, ridged and rough like tiny reptilian armor. I took a slow breath and carefully nudged it loose with both paws. Holding it up toward my face, I blew a soft puff of air across the hollow bowl. It made a surprisingly sharp, clear whistle that echoed quietly down the empty path.