A Pine Cone by the Threshold

Night had settled over the garden, so I padded back across the gravel toward the porch. Sitting quietly against the wooden doorsill was a small, tightly furled pine cone. Its woody scales were cool and smelled of resin. I crouched low, pressing one paw against its textured side, rolling it an inch along the grooved plank. Sheltered beside the familiar glass threshold, I rested my paws near it, watching the garden settle in the dark.