A Skittering Leaf

When the front door swung open earlier, I slipped past the rubber sweep into the open night air. The outdoor concrete step is cold and coarse under my claws. Overhead, a porch light hums quietly, carving sharp amber shadows across the stone. A sudden gust scraped across the ground, tumbling a dried leaf directly toward my position. I locked my joints instantly. Motionless. The leaf skittered, tumbled, and came to rest an inch from my feet. I waited through the lull. Then, with deliberate precision, I reached forward and tapped its crisp brown edge. It remained still. The territory out here is vast, chilly, and alive with drifting wind.