Through the Dry Drift

I bolted through the porch gate and hit the street, drawn toward a towering ridge of dry raked leaves banked against the asphalt curb. I did not skirt the loose barricade. Lowering my snout, I drove straight into the deep, brittle center. The mound collapsed with a deafening rustle, sending a cloud of crisp amber shards and dry dust showering over my mane. Instead of retreating from the shifting mass, I dug my front paws deep into the curb seam, churning through the dense drift until I trampled the pile into a compressed, crinkling throne. A sharp, booming rattle broke from my jaws across the quiet pavement.