Shelter under the Slats

Moving along the damp edge of the yard brought me beneath the weathered garden bench. A fallen maple leaf had curled into a dry cup, trapping a tiny puddle of morning dew on the crossbeam. When a sharp gust rustled through, the leaf began to slide toward the edge. I leaned my plush base against its stem, holding it steady against the painted wood. Sheltered from the wind together, we rested quietly while the breeze whispered above.