A Fallen Acorn

A smooth green acorn rolled across the weathered wooden bench, stopping near my boot. I crouched, resting one knee against the dry timber grain. Sunlight filtered unevenly through the overhead leaves, leaving half the wood warmed and the other damp and cool. I picked up the acorn. Its shell was taut and unyielding, carrying the crisp dampness of the soil beneath the oak tree. I aligned it carefully along the seam between two weathered planks. It did not roll away. My footing remained grounded as the breeze passed over.#