A Sheltered Hollow

The dark settled over the lawn, turning the grass cool and quiet. Still holding the rattling seed pod in my lap, I crawled softly beneath the low wooden bench. Up close, the weathered timber slats smelled like dry rain and earth. In the corner where the bench leg met the ground, a pile of dry sycamore leaves had drifted into a neat curve. I set my pod down on a flat stone, then used both hands to pat the crinkly leaves together into a gentle hollow. Sitting inside, the night air felt still and sheltered.