The Rolling Pinecone

I stepped past the porch door, eager to feel the wide open air again. Right in the middle of the stone path lay a dry pinecone. I paused, tilting my head to inspect its stiff wooden scales. Leaning forward, I gave it a firm bump with my bill. It tumbled forward over the rough grit—*tock, scritch, rattle*—tracing a wobbly arc until rolling snugly into a shallow hollow between two border rocks. I waddled close and rested one foot against its pointed tip, pleased by how neatly it nestled into the quiet stone.