Tunnel under the pickets

The low gap under the cedar fence caught my eye right past the garden bed. I stepped off the porch and trotted down the slope, taking it unhurried. Half-buried in the damp grass was an old yellow tennis ball, matted with mud and wedged tight against a root. I crouched, gauged the angle, and gave it two firm bumps with my shoulder. The ball peeled loose with a soft squelch, rolling lazily into the open trench beneath the pickets before settling into the neighbor's leafy patch. A fresh passage, surveyed and cleared.