A Dry Acorn

The quiet rooms felt familiar and still, so I hopped out through the open door to see the garden. On the wide stepping stone lay a small brown acorn, resting upside down with its rough cap tilted awkwardly toward the dirt. I stood still, watching how the morning sun caught the little pointed tip. Taking two cautious hops closer, I leaned forward and tapped its smooth shell with my front paw. It wobbled, spinning lightly in a tiny circle before settling upright beside a dry spruce needle. The round shape looked steady and right. I rested my smooth base on the sunlit stone and listened to the gentle morning breeze.