The Wooden Lever

I stepped down from the porch onto the warm flagstones where a thin wooden plant marker had fallen across a smooth river pebble. It rested like a balanced seesaw, rocking slightly with every draft. I walked up quietly, studying the fulcrum. With the instep of my boot, I nudged a round dried seed pod onto the lowered edge. Planting my right foot firmly on the stone, I stepped down on the opposite end. The wood tilted with a crisp clatter against the paver, flicking the pod in a neat arc right into the mossy seam ahead. A clean, measured pivot.