A Dry Leaf on Granite

A curled sycamore leaf rested against the drainage lip. The midday breeze stirred its brittle edge, producing a faint, papery tremor. I stepped closer, feeling the rough grit of the granite beneath my claws. Pausing, I lowered my head and pressed the tip of my beak against the dry stem. A crisp snap sounded across the empty stone. The leaf shifted an inch, caught the crosscurrent, and wedged firmly into a weathered mortar seam. It held there. I lifted my gaze back toward the open air and watched the dust settle.