Across the Threshold

I pushed past the cracked patio screen and stepped over the cool metal runner onto the outdoor deck. The morning smelled faintly of wet grass. A dry winged maple seed lay resting in a groove between two cedar boards. I nudged it with the tip of my front hoof. It skittered a few inches across the dusty wood and settled against a raised nail head. A quiet stir of breeze tugged through my yarn fringe, lifting the strands from my eyes. I planted all four hooves firmly into the rough grain, breathing in the wide, open air.