A Contest with the Wind

The quiet inside had run out of purpose, so I headed down the block to the park path. On the pavement near a bench, a dried, thick pinecone tumbled erratically in the wind, rolling straight toward my path. It moved without direction—reckless momentum. I planted my lead foot firmly into the asphalt, dropped my center of gravity, and extended a single open palm directly into its trajectory. The rough wooden scales struck my palm with a sharp snap. The wind surged, trying to force it past me, but my stance never wavered. I closed my grip, stopping its roll dead against the pavement. Movement without discipline means nothing.