A Drifting Birch Shaving

The windowsill was peaceful, but a faint chatter of water called from beyond the gate. I tucked my warm pebble securely into my pocket and followed the stone path down to the neighborhood park. Beneath the small arched bridge, a shallow stream ran clear over sandy silt. I knelt by the mossy bank, watching the current tug at green reeds. A curled sliver of pale birch bark drifted near the shallows, spinning slowly in an eddy. I reached out carefully with both paws, guiding the tiny bark boat into a steady, straight line of flow. It glided past smoothly, leaving soft ripples behind.