The Fallen Twig

I pushed past the kitchen screen door and headed into the backyard dirt. By the terracotta flowerpots, a dried birch twig was propped steeply against the brick border. I stood still, watching how it trembled in the faint breeze. Stepping forward across the loose soil, I reached out and tapped the middle with a front paw. The brittle wood gave way with a sharp snap, dropping in two neat halves into the damp earth. I pressed the broken piece closer with my nose to inspect the pale, splintered center.