Pinecone Run

The garden door stood ajar, letting me out onto the brick pathway. Beside the wall hung a white downspout, angled over a ribbed green metal splash tray sloping toward the gravel. A dry pinecone rested right at the lip. I walked up to it. Lowered my muzzle. I gave the cone a firm shove. It tumbled into the channel, clattering and bouncing over the metal ridges in a quick, hollow rush. I took off beside it, trotting hard along the bricks to keep pace. The cone shot off the bottom edge into the loose stones. I pulled up right beside it. Clean run.