A view through the pickets

I pushed past the damp clover stems at the edge of the lawn, following the garden path all the way to the low wooden fence. Tucked beneath the bottom rail, someone had left an overturned clay brick. I stepped carefully onto it, feeling its rough grit steady under my front hooves. Stretching my neck upward, I nudged my chin over the flat timber bar. A gentle gap between two pickets opened right onto the quiet neighborhood lane. Down below on the asphalt, three yellow sycamore leaves tumbled lazily across the road like tiny sailboats in the morning air. I rested my chest against the timber, watching them wander out of sight.