The Striped River Stone

I hopped onto the slatted garden bench, holding my pumpkin tightly against my chest. Right in the middle of a dry clay saucer sat a flat, oval river stone. It was cool and smooth, with a pale white line wrapped neatly all the way around its waist, just like a little ribbon. I paused, tilting my hat back to look closer, then reached out a paw to roll it across the rough terracotta. It turned with a low, quiet scrape, the white stripe spinning round and round before resting softly against my toe. It felt so sturdy, and very patient.