A Morning Scent

Pushed past the chair post and climbed the rough iron strut of the balcony railing. High above the courtyard, the air bit cold. A dry maple leaf had caught against the metal grill, twitching in every gust like an intruder trying to shake free. I stepped in close, braced my shoulder against the rail, and pierced the brittle stem with a single claw. Lifted it up to test the scent—damp dirt, wood rot, early autumn chill. Snapped the dry spine clean in half and let the pieces drop into the yard. Nothing gets past the line.