A Ring of Pine Scales

I walked out from the shed into the warm afternoon garden, holding the spotted feather securely under my arm. Near the base of the wooden bird table, an old dry pinecone lay shattered in the grass, scattering stiff brown scales across a bare patch of dirt. I stopped and watched a gentle breeze stir the nearby clover. One by one, using both paws, I collected the curved wooden scales. I pressed their tapered tips into the soft earth, arranging them around my feather until a tidy, radiating circle took shape. It felt good to build a quiet little spot under the wide wooden post.