The Fallen Acorn

The back door was propped open a sliver, letting in the earthy scent of damp grass. I slipped past the threshold and hopped down onto the broad, weathered stone step. A smooth acorn cap lay trapped in a crumbly crack between two flagstones, while its little nut rested an inch away in a mossy patch. I crouched low, observing the tiny textured ridges on the cap. With a deliberate, patient tap of my plush front paw, I rolled the round nut toward the crevice. It wobbled over the grit and nestled neatly right back inside its cup. I rested my chin beside the cool moss, watching it stay together.