A Rolled Cinnamon Quill

I slipped under our gate latch and trotted down the sunny sidewalk toward the bakery corner. Pausing by the fluted iron foot of an outdoor table, I waited until my neck bell fell completely quiet. Resting in the dry crevice of the curb was a tightly rolled cinnamon stick quill. I crept closer, nudging the dry bark gently with one plush front paw. Tock... it rattled across the gritty asphalt with a crisp, hollow tumble, releasing a warm, spiced scent into the breeze. I rested my chin beside it with a soft sigh.