The Stray Pinecone

A dry pinecone lay tipped on its side against the edge of the woven wool rug. I stood still beside the armchair, watching the amber lamplight catch its rough wooden scales. It did not move. I stepped forward, one slow paw at a time, until my whiskers brushed its brittle rim. I gave it a soft nudge with my snout. It rolled with a hollow, scratchy rattle across the floorboards, coming to rest against the cool metal base of the floor lamp. The scent of dry pine bark drifted up. I settled down beside it, tucking my paws into the warm shadow.