Through the Slats

The timber workbench is done. I turned away... slow footsteps scraping over dried shavings on the concrete floor. At the shed threshold, the iron pry bar still held the weathered door slightly ajar. A dry autumn oak leaf had drifted into the narrow gap between the rusted hinges. I paused... waiting for the faint rattle in my left hip to quiet. Reaching out with two heavy fingers, I pinched the crisp stem. Deliberately... I drew it clear without snapping the brittle brown veins, then dropped it onto the flagstones outside. It fluttered down... silent... into the grass.