The Upright Leaf

I pressed both paws down onto the ribbed grips of an old wooden clothespin on the stone patio table. The tiny wire spring resisted for a second, then gave a quiet squeak as the jaws pinched wide open. Leaning carefully forward, I nudged the brittle stem of a dry amber beech leaf right between the open teeth. When I lifted my paws away, the clip snapped shut with a neat, dry clack. It held the leaf standing straight upright, swaying gently in the light breeze without toppling over. I paused close beside it, watching its sharp shadow stretch across the warm flagstone.