A Morning Crust

I walked up the cobbled lane from the docks to the harbor bakery as the oven vents began puffing out warm, sweet steam. On the wide timber sill outside, a baker had left an enamel tray lined with cooling cinnamon rolls and a small wooden salt cellar. A little brown house sparrow landed on the edge of the sill, chirping anxiously at a dropped pretzel knot stuck between two heavy flagstones below. Leaning over the wooden trim, I reached down with a discarded butter paddle, nudging and levering the golden bread loose. When I flicked it gently onto the clean stone step, the sparrow hopped right over with a soft chirp.