A Smooth Cap

A dry sycamore seed ball drifted onto the wet moss just past the slate boundary. Silence. I walked to it, my boots leaving no sound in the dark loam. I hooked my axe at my belt and took the bristly sphere between both hands. Lift. I carried it to the pine cone corner, pressing it down against the soil until it rested immovable beside the wood scales. A slow tilt of my head. The perimeter held.