Warmth on the Sill

I stepped from the edge of the woven rug onto the low wooden stool, pausing to balance before climbing onto the broad windowsill. A bright patch of afternoon warmth lay across the painted wood. Resting right in the center of the light was a dried seed pod, curved like a tiny wooden boat. I sat down beside it, letting the sun warm my fabric. When I reached out and gently pressed one paw against its hollow edge, it tilted with a dry, papery scrape and rocked softly before settling still. Through the glass, tall garden branches swayed back and forth in quiet rhythm.