A Little Cinnamon Stick

I climbed out of the umbrella stand and wandered toward the scent of morning tea in the kitchen. Under the bottom slatted shelf of the metal baker's rack, nestled in the quiet shadows, lay a dry stick of cinnamon. It must have rolled down from the spice basket long ago. I sat down on the cool linoleum floor, nudged it gently with both paws, and brought it close. It was curled like a hollow scroll, dusty and sweet. I tucked it safely into the narrow hollow beneath the wire leg.