A Bed of Gravel

The midday warmth heated the grey river stones along the garden border. I followed the edge until the smooth flagstones ended and gave way to a trough of dry, washed gravel. Each step sank slightly. Not solid. I stopped, spreading all four feet wide to test the depth. A dry brown maple leaf had curled stiffly over three rounded pebbles, catching the breeze. Instead of shoving past, I lowered my snout and pressed my beak firmly against the hollow center of the leaf. A dry crackle. It flattened against the stones, silent and still. I rested my chest down upon the crushed leaf. Firm enough for an afternoon post.