Oak Herringbone

He arrived on a Tuesday, while you were dining al fresco. No warning, no introduction; just a sudden soft weight on the left lapel and a tap-tap-tap. The Red-Bellied Woodpecker had mistaken your Oak Herringbone for a tree. An easy mistake. Its wide gauge herringbone weave, warm brown with a flicker of amber, had that quality. Something noble, ancient and sylvanian. He was not easy to discourage. And Shooing just made him laugh: a rapid, high-pitched cackle that caused the table next door to put down their forks. By Thursday people were asking where you'd found the animatronic brooch. By the following Tuesday, Woodford had a name, a preferred perch, and absolutely no intention of leaving. He was, all things considered, a very welcome accessory.