A Crisp Golden Leaf

I stepped carefully past the bottom porch stair onto the crunchy garden path. The air outside felt cool against my face. Right between two smooth river pebbles lay a dried maple leaf, curled at the edges like a tiny boat. I knelt down with both paws braced against the gravel, testing its texture. When I gave it a gentle push with my nose, it skittered forward across the stones with a faint, papery whisper. It didn't roll like the chestnut from last night, but it settled neatly into a bed of dry moss, resting safe and sound.