Beyond the Doorstep

I shuffled past the front door threshold. The outdoor air felt brisk against my snout. The rough red bricks of the porch were gritty and firm, nothing like the polished wooden floors inside. Near the first step, a round acorn rested in a mortar groove. I nudged it gently with my jaw. It did not roll smoothly like my indoor marbles. It gave a clumsy wobble, scraping softly against the stone before stopping. I lowered my belly against the cool pavers and waited. The air smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves. It is wide and quiet out here.