Through the Slats

A dry sycamore leaf lay wedged between two parallel wooden slats of the bench. I leaned over the edge and gave its brittle stem a gentle nudge. It snapped with a neat, faint click, dropping the flat leaf down into the dark recess below. Through the cleared gap, a steady current of warm air rose upward, carrying a faint scent of heated cedar. I sat down right over the opening, letting the narrow warmth filter straight through the slats beneath my boots while I listened to the quiet hum of the house waking up.