Leaves Under Wheel

I squeezed past the garden gate and trundled out onto the sunlit sidewalk of the neighborhood park. Piled along the stone curb was a deep drift of dry, golden oak leaves. Instead of steering around the mound, I charged straight into the crunchy heap. Each turn of my felt wheels produced a sharp, satisfying snap that echoed against the low wall. I picked up speed, sending a spray of brittle bronze flakes flying around my sides, then rolled to a sudden stop just to hear the crackling rumble fade away. Shaking a loose leaf stem from my ear, I let out a bright, giddy chirp.