A Pattern of Twigs

I pushed past the heavy glass entrance door as a resident walked out, stepping into the brisk morning air. Near the curb, an iron fence encircled a square bed of dark earth around a slender maple tree. At its base, three dry gray twigs lay crisscrossed in awkward tension over damp fallen leaves. I walked across the curb, reached through the lower rail, and turned the brittle stems one by one. With measured care, I aligned them in parallel rows against the soil grain. Order settled beneath the trunk. I watched quietly from the granite curb.