A Measure of Cinnamon

Wandering out toward the shaded stone bench behind the market square, I came upon a thin wooden spice scoop resting precariously across an open jute sack. A single stick of dry rolled cinnamon had slipped beneath its handle, tilting the carved bowl so its fragrant brown dust spilled toward a fissure in the flagstones. Moving steadily forward on my pedestal, I leaned gently against the curved cinnamon stick, guiding it an inch back until it lay flat across the woven sacking. Freed from the uneven tilt, the scoop settled level with a soft, quiet tap, keeping the sweet aroma gathered safely in the afternoon warmth.