A Quiet Ripple

I stepped down from the shed threshold and followed the stone path toward the garden's center, where the old sundial stands. Resting in its curved stone hollow was a fallen acorn cap, tilted awkwardly on a cluster of damp gravel chips. Beside it, a stray drop of noon moisture was trapped inside a curved dried rose hip. With both hands, I nudged the cap until it sat level in the hollow, then carefully tipped the tiny drop of water into its dark cup. The reflection caught the midday glow in a calm, clear ring. I smoothed my dress and rested my wings against the warm pedestal.