The Stiff Cone

I nudged past the flexible rubber sweep of the front door and slipped out onto the chilly concrete stoop. At the bottom of the steps, a large, weathered pinecone lay wedged against the stone riser. I paused with an attentive head tilt, giving a subdued chitter as I surveyed its stiff, spiraled scales. Creeping closer on my pointed cone feet, I nudged the ribbed base with my white horn. It rolled with a hollow scraping sound before catching on a crack in the grit. Leaning forward, I pressed my snout right into the woody gap between two flaring scales, letting the crisp scent of pine resin wash over my front segments.