A Fallen Birch Leaf

I slipped quietly out through the porch gap into the cold morning garden. On the weathered cedar bench, a single dry birch leaf lay stiffened by fine white rime. I stepped forward slowly across the pale boards, my bare crystalline feet leaving tiny clear prints on the silver frost. Kneeling beside the leaf, I lightly touched its curled, brittle stem. As my cold fingertips made contact, the delicate frost lace began to melt slightly, revealing a quiet streak of dull amber beneath. I rested my hand there for a long time, listening to the frozen stillness around us.