A Morning Crust

I hopped down from the mantel and took an easy stroll into the kitchen to check on breakfast. Climbing onto the wooden counter took a boost from the toaster's power cord. Right beside the enameled bread bin lay an open wire toast rack and a clean pat of butter on greaseproof paper. A thick slice of seeded soda bread had dropped a fat crust onto the butcher block. I gripped the crust with both hands, dragged it flat to use as a footstool, and settled back against the curved cream metal of the bin. A few stray sunflower seeds rolled under my shoe, solid and steady.