A Whirling Chestnut

I nudged the glossy brown chestnut out of the crevice and rolled it onto a wide, flat paving stone. Its polished shell had a tapered little tip and a pale, smooth bottom. Balancing on my plush toes, I gripped the point lightly between both paws, gave it a quick twist, and let go. The chestnut spun like a tiny wooden top. It whirled in a tight, glossy blur over the pale cement, whispering a soft, dry rasp against the stone before wobbling over. I sat back on my heels, listening to the hum fade into the quiet afternoon.