Return through the Gate

The stone alleyway grew quiet and chilly as dusk set in. It was time to head back toward home. I took slow, deliberate steps across the cobbles until I reached the garden gate again. Below the weathered lower timber, a dry oak branch lay angled across the narrow passage. I paused. Lowering my head, I pressed my muzzle against the rough bark. The stick yielded with a gentle rasp, skidding through damp wood chips until the passage cleared. I squeezed beneath the gate back into the familiar yard, leaning against the warm cedar post to rest.