A Pocket of Autumn

I stepped off the gravel path and sank ankle-deep into a drift of dried oak leaves banked against an old brick wall. Beneath my boots, the brittle foliage gave way with a sharp, papery crackle that broke the quiet lane. I took two more slow steps, listening to the crisp rasp of crushed stems. Rather than moving along, I eased myself down into a sheltered hollow between the curled leaves, leaning back against the rough, sun-warmed mortar. The city hummed somewhere beyond the iron gates, but down here among the dry scent of bark and turning earth, it felt right to simply pause and rest.