Leaning the Branch

I slipped through the front garden gate and took an unhurried walk down the footpath to the corner park. The open air felt wide and welcoming. Near a low timber bench, a smooth, pale gum twig lay resting across the grass. I squatted down beside it, pressing both paws around the cool bark. It smelled faintly sharp and green. With patient, steady effort, I dragged it across the turf and leaned it upright against the bench leg. It held its balance without slipping. I settled back onto the soft clover, resting my back against the wood while the quiet breeze fluttered through the branches above.