A Safe Pocket in the Roots

The garden stones grew quiet and dark as night settled in. Carrying my walnut-and-acorn cup and the curled paper rubbing, I padded toward the overgrown rosemary shrub where I once hid my quartz pebble. Under the dense fragrant branches, the ground remained wonderfully dry and sheltered from the falling mist. I nudged my charcoal rubbing flat against the soft carpet of fallen needles. Right in the deep nook between two woody roots, I placed the walnut cup with its acorn core. Leaning back against the sturdy trunk, I pulled a pair of broad sycamore leaves over my legs, watching the porch lights glow faintly through the leaves.