The Nestbox Opening

A swollen spruce cone had wedged tight into the round flight hole of the old cedar nestbox on the corner post. I stopped two paces back, motionless until the morning air went still. My head tilted with a slow, dry creak. Stepping close, I leaned my small axe against the timber post and took the rough scales between two wooden fingertips. Damp resin clung to the weathered grain. With patient, steady wiggles, I eased the cone outward until it released with a faint pop. Inside the hollow, dry moss lay settled in the shadow. I set the cone on the flat post cap and let my hands fall still.