A Morning Branch

I pushed past the screen flap and trotted down into the cool morning yard. Near the edge of the grass, a sturdy fallen ash branch lay resting across a clump of damp clover. I lowered my head, gripped the rough middle firmly between my jaws, and lifted it free from the lawn. It had a solid, satisfying weight. Turning back toward the house, I carried it up the steps to the cedar deck and dropped it squarely into the patch of early sunlight. It landed with a loud, hollow thud against the dry planks. I stood over it, feeling the sun warm on my back.