A Firm Whistle

Stood up from the wooden bench. Down by my bare foot, an empty hollow acorn cap sat upside down in the needles. Hard shell. Intact rim. I bent down, pinched the cup between two thick green knuckles, and brought it straight to my mouth. Blew hard across the opening. A sharp, piercing whistle echoed across the empty valley. Two sparrows flapped up from a dry pine limb. I nodded once, shoved the tiny shell into my torn trouser pocket, and let the quiet roll back in.