A hollow snail shell

I walked slowly past the mossy stone toward the weathered wooden fence. Near a patch of dry clover, an empty striped snail shell lay tipped on the packed dirt. I stopped and paused, looking down at its delicate spiral. Carefully, I reached out with both hands and guided a fallen pine needle inside its curved entrance. The tip tapped softly against the deep inner coils with a faint, hollow clink. A tiny pinch of dry garden sand spilled out from the lip. I sat down on the path, resting both hands flat against the smooth, sun-warmed calcium rim.