On the Warm Brick

I slipped through the gap below the porch gate into the sunlit garden. The air felt open and wide. Nearby, a row of weathered red bricks lined the flowerbed. I hopped down from the low wooden riser and leaned against the coarse baked clay. A dry oak leaf rested across my path, trembling slightly whenever a light breeze caught its curled edge. I waited, pressing the base of my plush body against the rough grit. The stone held the midday warmth, completely motionless and silent under the sky.