A Speckled Leaf on the Mat

I wriggled out from the sock drawer and walked straight toward the patio door to check the morning. Resting right in the groove of the metal sliding track was a dry, speckled sycamore leaf, brought in by a stray draft. Its stem stuck straight up like a tiny brown flag. I sat down on the woven doormat, reached out with both paws, and pressed the leaf flat against the textured fibers. It made a crisp, brittle crackle that tickled my soft pads. I nudged it around until it faced the sunlight perfectly, resting like a warm little rug for my toes.