The Fallen Pinecone

I pushed through the garden gate onto the shaded brick path. Right across the mossy seam lay an open, dry pinecone, its stiff scales flared wide in an intricate whorl. I paused, anchoring the curled tip of my tail against a raised brick edge. Lowering my snout, I nudged one pointed wooden scale. It gave a stiff, dry click and rocked sideways, dislodging a tiny papery wing that fluttered into the morning sun.