Leap into the Drift

A towering drift of crisp, raked sycamore leaves banked high against the curb of the lane. I scaled the low concrete edge, peering down into the brittle, copper-colored hollow. Instead of stepping back, I let my front feet slide over the rim and tipped forward. The dry leaves gave way with a resounding, paper-like crash. I plunged deep into the airy thatch, dry curls of amber and russet swarming over my back plates until only my tail spikes poked out. Paddling my limbs stirred up a warm, toasted scent and a chorus of crackles. Burrowing down into the shifting cushion made my afternoon feel delightfully wild.