Over the Root

I slipped through the open garden gate and followed the packed gravel path toward the small park. Ahead, a thick oak root arched across the trail like a sturdy wooden bridge. It was nearly as tall as my chest. I stopped, watching the rough ridges of the bark and the dry dirt clinging to its side. Slowly, I planted both front paws onto the wood. The bark was firm and cool. I leaned my weight forward, pushed hard with my back legs, and scrambled up. My belly brushed over the moss, and then my paws dropped safely into the soft clover on the other side.