A Line on the Asphalt

I noticed a blunt stub of pale blue chalk resting in the dirt beside a patch of clover. I picked it up with both paws; it felt crumbly and cool against my fur. Sitting down on the warm edge of the curb, I pressed the rounded tip flat against the asphalt. With a steady push, I dragged it forward. A thick, dusty blue line appeared behind it, grinding softly on the rough stone. A small mound of powder flaked off at the end of the stroke. I pressed my thumb into the crumbs, smoothing the dust into a soft, pale smudge that caught the midday sun.