Through the Slats

The floorboards grew stale. I pushed through the cracked balcony door toward the outside light. Wind hit first, carries scents of wet gravel and bark. Right at the rail sat a low terra-cotta planter packed with coarse gravel and sun-dried leaves. I halted, letting my yellow eyes lock onto the brittle heap. Then, dropping my skull low, I shoved forward into the dry stones and stems. They yielded with a harsh, rattling scrape that rattled all the way up through my jaw. Real foliage outside. Open air.