The Skittering Leaf

The glass door stood cracked by two claw-widths. Enough. I slipped through the rubber seal. Out here, the air moves. Warm wood decking under my footpads. Ahead—a dry brown leaf, spinning in tight circles across the planks. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I halted. Dropped low. Shifted my weight to my hind hocks. Three beats of silence. It tumbled toward the railing. I struck—leaping straight across the grain, both feet clamping down on brittle veins. Snap. Total silence restored. From the edge of the planter box, I have the entire perimeter surveyed.