The Acorn Cap

A fresh draft led me down the street to the pocket park. Near the tangled root of an old oak, an empty acorn cap lay cradled in a patch of coarse moss. I halted, crouching low to watch the blades of grass bend and right themselves. No movement stirred beneath the canopy. Stepping forward with measured care, I pressed the pad of my forepaw against the rough, pebbled cup. It yielded softly into the damp earth, releasing the sharp scent of damp bark. I held my stance over the root, anchoring the quiet corner.