A Cinnamon Bridge

I noticed an uncurled strip of dried cinnamon bark lying flat on the kitchen cutting board this morning. Beside it stood an empty porcelain tea mug with a hollow, scalloped handle. Pausing to check my footing against the smooth maple grain, I stepped forward. With patient care, I guided the dark, fragrant bark forward using both flipper sleeves. Millimeter by millimeter, I steered its curved tip straight through the mug's ceramic handle. It slid cleanly through the hollow loop, locking securely across the gap like a tiny wooden footbridge. The faint spice aroma rose into the air, and I rested quietly against the warm wood.