Under the Curled Leaf

I crept past the cracked front door and stepped onto the warm slate flagstones of the porch. Right against the low brick planter, an enormous dried maple leaf had settled, its edges curling inward to form a crisp, hollow arch. I paused to inspect the raised web of pale veins under the afternoon light, then carefully dropped to my knees. Crawling forward, I ducked under the brittle roof until it shaded my shoulders from the glare. The papery surface rustled faintly as I tapped the stem, and I let out a satisfied, quiet hum.