The Golden Twig

My paws took me past the library square to a quiet wooden bench outside a corner bakery. The sweet scent of baked pastry hung in the air. On the bench slats lay a stiff brown paper pretzel sleeve, dusted with a few stray grains of coarse salt. Beside it, someone had dropped a broken wooden pastry fork. I pushed the pronged stick until it slid neatly into the paper sleeve like an ornate sword slipped into its scabbard. Sitting back against the sunlit wood, I watched the salt crystals glitter like tiny diamonds along the edge of my miniature weapon.