A Rolling Walnut

I stepped past the damp gravel path onto the soft fringe of grass. My foot blocks sank slightly into the moist turf, prompting a momentary pause to stabilize my balance servos. Near the base of the stone birdbath, a fallen green walnut lay lodged against a clump of clover. I did not tap it hard. Instead, I carefully lowered my right limb and pressed the tennis-ball tip firmly against its rounded shell, rolling it forward through the wet blades. It carved a clean, dark track in the dew before resting against a flat flagstone. I held my posture, watching the moisture cling to its curve.