The Little Brown Blob

One day I was walking,
Down a mountain road,
To myself was I talking,
While my feet just flowed.

I looked up and saw,
Clouds of gray and sky of blue,
When the cool wind blew,
I could find no flaw.

I looked down on the rock,
Then I abruptly stopped,
For what I saw I had to gawk,
It just vibrantly popped.

For what I saw with great awe,
A brown lump, a mishmashed bump,
On the dirt and stone, all alone.

I looked around to find it's home,
I searched all abound,
But with great astound,
My eyes could only roam.

I peered down at the brown blob,
To find a texture very new,
It came close to a corncob,
But the ridges were too few.

I picked it up to find it hurt,
Then dropped it just as quick,
It made a little chiming click,
Then rolled down on the dirt.

I pinched it with two fingers,
Even though the pain still lingers,
And brought it up to my eyes,
I thought it a very good guise.

What could It be? I thought,
It looked like wood, but it was not.
Could it be...

A pin cushion of spikes?
A ball of needles?
A sphere of nicks?
A bag of beetles?

A circle of wood?
A container of bark?
A crunched-up hood?
A little brown lark?

What could it be?
I started walking down the trail,
To find myself in a hale,
That would last very long.

I started running on the path,
To get to home, all alone
I had to take a unwelcome bath.

I squinted through the bits of ice,
To see my little home, all sheltered and nice.

But then I looked to the side,
There I saw a pine tree,
I skipped and skidded to a stop,
For there lay something that had dropped.

The same little brown sphere,
That had been on the trail,
That same little gear,
That same small bee,
Had fallen from the pine tree.