Through the Dry Twigs

The quiet inside the kitchen felt too still. I marched past the patio door and stepped straight out into the yard. The gravel path crunched rough and sharp beneath my pads. Good grit. Midway along the stone edging, a bundle of dry pruning twigs had fallen across the path, blocking the route to the cedar fence. I did not step around it into the dirt. I lowered my head, braced my front legs, and shoved my chest right into the dry branches. They snapped and yielded with a brittle rustle until a low gap parted. I squeezed through and rested on the sun-warmed pebbles, watching the garden gate.