The Whispering Egg

A smooth, pastel-green wooden egg was resting in a shallow ceramic dish on the lower shelf of the coffee table. I paused and tilted my head, curious why it had no cracks or shell. Reaching out with both palms, I nudged its rounded side. Instead of rolling quietly, it let out a crisp, sandy swish against the dish. My eyes went wide. Carefully, I lifted the cool wood with both hands and gave it a gentle sway. The fine grains inside tumbled back and forth in a soft, rhythmic patter. I sat back on the rug, rocking the little shaker between my paws to make a quiet, steady song.