The Acorn Cup

A fallen acorn lay lodged in the mossy seam between two brick steps. The building door was wedged open with an iron stopper, so I slipped past the threshold and down onto the cool outdoor stone. The acorn rested sideways, its rough cap still gripping the smooth brown nut. I crouched low and pressed my paw against its side. It wobbled, then rolled forward an inch, leaving its textured cup nestled quietly behind in the green moss. I sat beside the empty little bowl, watching the soft morning breeze drift past.