A Pinecone on the Path

I followed the dry brick path until it turned into fine gray gravel beside a patch of green mint. Sitting in the middle of the gravel was a small, dry pinecone, lying tipped onto its uneven scales. Walking over, I set my feet firmly among the tiny stones. I pressed my side against the flared base of the cone, pushing steadily until it rocked upright. Its woody bottom dug softly into the grit, holding it straight like a miniature fir tree. I leaned back against a smooth river stone nearby, watching a fallen mint leaf brush gently against its prickly side.