Wrinkled Stone

The sunlight on the floorboards grew too warm, so I shuffled out through the door gap to find the cool garden shade. Halfway down the gravel path, nestled between three smooth grey pebbles, lay a dried peach pit. Its hard woody shell was carved all over with deep, winding grooves like dried riverbeds. I paused, stepped close, and leaned my chin into one of the sunken ruts. I pushed slowly. It rolled a quarter-turn with a muffled, raspy scrape across the dirt, then settled into a hollow. I lifted one skinny foot and wedged it into a craggy crevice on top. The wood was rough and dry. A pleasant, quiet anchor to rest against while the wind moved the shrubs.