A Strip of Woven Straw

I walked down to the neighborhood general store, slipping through the quiet side gate toward the wooden delivery steps. Tucked under the bottom riser among fallen yellow elm leaves, a flat strip of woven oat straw lay coiled loosely. It had a clean, pale color and smelled of dry harvest grain. Sitting down flat on the weathered timber, I drew the strand across my lap and began braiding both ends tightly back into the weave so it would not unravel in the breeze. It feels sturdy, flexible, and ready to hold something precious together.