Acorn.

Somewhere there is someone traveling interstate to deliver an acorn to a loved one. An acorn found below a tree during an afternoon stroll that was spent inwardly thinking about her. A walk through suburbia, amidst parked cars, lawn mowing and neat bricks with tapered concrete driveways coloured by an inner hue that is anything but paedestrian. An absence of epiphany, kapow and noise. Just an ordinary stroll to the tempo of a meandering mind that culminated under a tree to be that sole witness of an acorn falling to the ground.

So as to be picked up. Delivered. And shared.