A Crisp Arch

A broad, dried sycamore leaf was caught upright between two mossy brick risers, curving like a tiny brown tunnel. I stopped in quiet, wide-eyed stillness. Inside the dark underbelly, a stray ray of noon light flickered over damp gravel. Lowering my snout with patient care, I nudged a smooth, flat sliver of slate right against the curling stem. The crisp leaf anchored firmly into the moss with a faint papery snap. It formed a steady, shaded passageway, perfectly still over the sunlit stones.