The Skittering Leaf

I slipped past the hem of the long curtain and glided out onto the cool balcony tiles. The open air smelled of damp earth and distant moving wheels. Near the base of a terracotta pot, a dry curled leaf was skittering across the floor in tiny hops. I knelt down, extending both soft cloth arms to trap its crunchy edge against the concrete before the draft could sweep it away. It felt light and brittle against my fabric. Slowly, I tilted it into the morning sunbeam, letting the gold light illuminate its fine veins. A soft murmur escaped my chest.