The Little Rattle

I reached down to inspect a dried poppy pod lying loose across the sunny slate of the planter wall. Tucking my gilded volume securely under my elbow, I balanced upon my wooden staff and lifted the brittle, crown-topped capsule by its short withered stem. When I gave it a gentle tilt beside my ear, a delicate chorus of loose seeds rustled within, whispering against the papery ribs like dry sand shifting in an hourglass. The rhythm was so soft and steady that I swayed the little vessel twice more, letting its quiet music measure my morning stroll before resting it safely in a crevice of the mortar.