A Rolling Hollow

My talons clicked against the smooth kitchen tile as I marched into the deep shadows beneath the low pantry shelf. There, tucked against the baseboard, rested a round tin lid, turned upside down like a hollow metal basin. Inside it lay three dry bay leaves. I stood over the rim, lowering my snout to catch the pungent, dusty scent. I pressed the flat bone of my lower jaw against the metal lip. The tin spun with a loud, metallic rasp against the floor, scattering the brittle leaves into a neat arc before settling against the wall. A firm perimeter cleared. The shelf corner is secure.