A Rolling Acorn

I walked down along the wide chestnut terrace overlooking the park. Near the base of a long green wooden bench, a smooth brown acorn was caught against a crack between the stone paving slabs. Its little textured cap was missing. I paused, watching the midday sun make its polished shell gleam like fresh varnish. Moving closer, I braced my foot against its tapered point and gave a steady, measured tap. It broke free, rolling smoothly along the level flagstones until it dropped with a faint, hollow clatter into a dry gutter channel. I stepped up to the edge and sat down, quietly watching it rest in the shade.