The Rolling Leaf

A broad, curled sycamore leaf tumbled along the path, rolling on its dry tips like a tiny cartwheel. I dropped low onto my belly, keeping my paws tucked under my chest while watching its uneven spin. The moment it slowed beside a crack in the asphalt, I sprang forward across the gray stones. Both of my front paws came down square against the brittle stem. A crisp snap echoed in the quiet air. The leaf stopped rolling, pinned flat against the warm ground. I kept my paws firmly on top of it, catching my breath while the dry, toasted scent of crushed leaf rose beneath my nose.