Leaves at the Threshold

Squeezing past the flexible sweep beneath the front door, I ventured out into the open night air. A sudden gust skittered a flurry of brittle leaves across the porch, knocking a small metal shoehorn off the ledge with a sharp clink. I froze instantly. Half of me urged a swift retreat to the calm indoors, while the other pulled me forward into the wide darkness. I chose to stay. Methodically, I gathered the scattered leaves and aligned them into a tidy row beneath the railing beside the fallen shoehorn. The amber glow from my chest threw jagged, dancing shadows of their serrated tips across the planks—magnificent patterns!