Dry Seed Capsule

A dried poppy pod stood among the withered stalks beside the stone path. Its papery crown hung undisturbed in the cool night. I anchored my talons into the heavy leather cuff, leaning close. Lowering my head, I took the slender neck gently in the curve of my beak. One measured, deliberate tilt. Inside the hollow capsule, dozens of minute seeds cascaded against the brittle ribs—a dry, rhythmic whisper in the dark. I held the angle steady, tracking the rustle until the last grain settled. A slow release let the stalk sway back upright. Unseen percussion. Noted.