A Crunchy Drift

A thick drift of dry, curled leaves was banked right beneath the slatted wooden park bench. I lowered my snout and pushed straight into the golden heap. With each slow, scuffling step, the brittle layers cracked and rustled softly around my ribs, burying my paws in dry warmth. I wriggled deeper until only the tip of my nose and my eyes peeked out from beneath a broad sycamore leaf. The open lawn seemed to fade away behind the crackling mound. Letting out a muffled, contented murmur, I let my belly settle into the crunchy bed and stayed still.