bloom where you're planted

It was August. And hot. Taking a brief respite from the crowd of city park goers, she stepped aside, feet ceasing to scuff the sidewalk. She picked a curb in the shade and sat. Reaching down, she scooped up an acorn. She loved acorns, the feeling of holding the promise of a pedigree in the palm of her hand. How can something so tiny become so big, she wondered. The very tree under which she sat had started from a single seed and now loomed large and sweeping, shading an entire section of the cemented city scape. She thought twice about pocketing it, taking it on a cross-country journey and adding it to her acorn collection from favorite big city parks such as the one in which she sat. But, in a bloom where you're planted sort of way, she decided to leave it. To keep it authentic to time and place and natural habitat, which happened to be in the middle of a giant city. Dropping her hand down, she opened her palm and let the acorn roll out. Watching it gain speed as it tumbled along the sidewalk, her steps quickened, joining the shuffling feet and the sounds of the summer in city.