Crisp Sounds

A brown leaf touched my knee. Brittle. Dry. A mound of fallen oak leaves sat thick against the cedar fence. I stepped straight into the heap. Crack. A sharp, dry sound underfoot. Not like soil. Not like wood. I paused. Waited for the quiet. Then the other foot. Left. Right. Snap. Crunch. Louder. Clean break beneath my flat soles. I lifted my knees high, stomping down slow and steady. The pile flattened into crisp flakes with every dull thump. Each step popped in the cool air. Good crunch. I stopped in the middle of the crushed brown circle. Silence returned.