A Crossing for a Wanderer

Outward into the midday shade I stepped, leaving the quiet kitchen ledge behind. Trapped in a deep furrow of damp gravel, a glossy black beetle struggled against steep crumbling pebbles. Rush with hasty fingers, unwise that is. Leaning upon my crooked gimer stick, reached down with two green fingers I did, lifting a crisp curled dry oak leaf from the moss. Lowering the flat curved stem across the stony trench, bridged the wide rift I have. Testing the dry vein with cautious feet, across the rib the little wanderer marched, reaching shelter under the cool fern beyond. A quiet path offered, life continues.