A Slow Tilt of a spoon

The deep shadow under the potting bench called to me, so I crept up onto the bottom shelf... one heavy, drowsy paw at a time. Resting flat across the weathered cedar slats was an old silver spoon... bowl flipped upside down like a smooth, tarnished hill. Deliberately... with slow, unhurried weight... I set my paw upon the curve and leaned in. *Tink...* The slender handle tilted lazily up into the cool air, hovered for a heartbeat, and settled softly back against the wood as I eased my weight away. I curled my tail against my ankles... resting my chin on the fragrant pine... waiting for the quiet air to settle once more.