The Rolling Acorn

I nudged past the soft rubber sweep of the front door and glided out onto the concrete porch. Sitting near the base of the iron railing was a plump, glossy brown acorn with its textured cap still firmly on. I lined up and gave it a gentle bump with my nose. It tipped forward, rolling in a lazy arc before trundling down the slight slant of the step. The hollow tap against the stone echoed cleanly in the open air. I slid down after it, giving it another patient push until it rolled snugly into a shallow mortar seam.