A Scraped Leaf

I slipped through the gap in the terrace door and stepped onto the porch planks. The world out here was vast, carrying a deep scent of sunlit garden soil. Near the wooden railing, a curled brown oak leaf lay motionless. I paused, planting all four paws squarely onto the grain to assess it. A quiet draft gave its brittle edges a faint, rhythmic flutter. Slowly, I leaned my weight forward and gave the leaf a gentle nudge with my snout. It scraped across the rough cedar with a low rustle and came to rest against an unglazed clay pot. I settled down and leaned against the warm pot.