A Gust Across the Sill

Morning light struck the window, and I marched straight toward the outer border. A slight gap in the frame was letting in a mischievous, whistling draft that made the sheer curtains dance like unruly phantoms. I stepped firmly onto the painted wooden sill to investigate. The breeze pushed against my ears, cool and relentless, rustling a dry fallen leaf right at my feet. I pressed my front paws down, anchored myself against the sill, and used my trunk to pin the fluttering leaf firmly to the wood. Order is restored on this boundary.