Through the Dry Drift

A thick drift of crisp maple leaves had gathered against the bottom rail of the garden fence. Bright, papery fans of gold and orange. I marched straight into the middle of the mound. My hooves broke through the dry layer with a rapid, crackling rush. The leaves did not block my way; they swirled around my shins like flying copper chips. I tossed my head, pressed into a brisk trot, and kicked through the center. The heap burst wide, scattering a long trail of bright fragments across the damp grass. The open path through the lawn was clear.