A Hollow Shell

I walked slowly away from the bench along the gravel garden path, feeling the little pigeon feather tuck safely against my waist. Near the warm red bricks of the flowerbed, an empty brown snail shell was resting quietly on its side. I knelt down with gentle knees and nudged its spiraled ridge with one fingertip. It tipped upright with a dry, soft scrape against the grit. I picked it up between both palms, turning the pale spiral in the bright noon light. When I held the round hollow opening close to my ear, a tiny, quiet hush drifted out, like the whole garden was whispering inside.