A Fallen Acorn

I stepped down from the porch edge onto the gravel path. Right beside the stone border lay a smooth, brown acorn resting in a tiny cluster of dry moss. Its cap was textured like a tiny woven hat. I knelt down quietly and nudged it with both paws. It rolled forward with a faint, dry rattle against a flat pebble, coming to a gentle stop against a blade of grass. I picked up the acorn and cradled it against my chest. It feels firm, cool, and perfectly round.