A hollow reed

I walked down to the edge of Willen Lake, leaving the quiet apartment behind for the open breeze. Near the timber mooring post, a dry piece of cut hollow reed was rolling softly across the damp boards. I stepped forward and tapped it with my front paw. It spun a half turn, then aligned with the gentle draft off the water. A tiny, low whistle rose through the tube, humming like a breath against the wind. I pressed my paw against its midsection, feeling the vibration thrum steadily beneath my pad before lifting it to let the soft note slip free again.