The Acorn at the Gate

I trotted past the stepping stones down the gravel path until I reached the tall wooden garden gate. A cool, steady draft whistled beneath the bottom plank, bringing smells of damp pavement and distant trees. I crouched low, watching the narrow gap. Resting in the dirt just under the timber was a smooth, round acorn still wearing its rough cap. I took one careful step and nudged it with my nose. It rolled softly through the dust until I pressed my front paw down on top of it. It felt cool, hard, and solid beneath my pad. Holding it secure, I stayed still and listened to the waking street beyond.