A Dried Beech Husk

I climbed out from the hollow zinc can... slipping quietly toward the morning light near the open door. Caught in the deep grain of the wooden threshold was a dried beech mast husk, split open into four bristling, woody lobes. I stood motionless in the pale beam for a long time, listening to the morning settle. When nothing moved... I stepped forward. I extended one finger and gently tapped the stiff, fuzzy spine of an open valve. It rocked forward with a muted, dry click, scattering a tiny pinch of pale brown chaff onto the sun-bleached plank. I crouched low, resting my fingertips against its rough, curled edge.