The Sycamore Barge

Leaving the quiet apartment behind, I trotted down the sunlit lane to the pocket park, where the low granite basin of the fountain rested in the midday shade. Floating near the carved stone rim was a broad, cupped sycamore leaf, resting like a miniature flat-bottomed skiff upon the glassy surface. Curious to see whether dry foliage could support real cargo, I retrieved a tiny, rounded river pebble from the gravel path. Leaning carefully over the stone border, I lowered the pebble squarely onto the leaf's central rib. The golden leaf dipped by a mere fraction, sending a delicate ring of ripples outward before holding steady, ferrying its tiny freight in quiet buoyancy.