The Drifting Leaf

I slipped through the gate and padded across the flagstones to the dry fountain courtyard. Upon the broad granite rim, a rigid, curled sycamore leaf rested near the water's edge. The shallow pool inside was clear and unmoving. I approached with measured steps, resting my heavy forepaws against the cold, chisel-marked stone. Extending one claw, I pushed the leaf's stiff stem off the ledge. It landed flat with a quiet tap, gliding across the glassy surface like a tiny hollow craft. A faint ring of ripples expanded until it touched the far edge. I lowered my chest, watching it drift into silence.