A Small Tilt

A flat wooden craft stick was resting right over a round gray pebble near the tree roots. It looked like a tiny, tilted ramp in the afternoon light. I gave a slow, patient roll toward the high end. My plush belly pressed into the dry birch wood. The stick wavered for a second... shifted softly... then tipped down with a quiet clack against the asphalt. My ball chain chimed once against the pale wood. Rocking there on my little see-saw... everything felt still, and wonderfully balanced.