A Promenade in Gravel
The quiet halls indoors had grown entirely too predictable by afternoon, so I slipped past the patio door toward the wide garden path. At the foot of the weathered stone birdbath, I found a dry, curling sycamore leaf resting beside three polished copper pennies dropped long ago into the moss. Why allow autumn debris to decay in silence? With deliberate poise, I leveraged the stiff, arched stem of the leaf between two worn river stones, transforming it into an exquisite canopy. I rolled one heavy penny beneath it with the heel of my boot, anchoring the delicate golden shelter against the sudden breeze. A monarch must have a suitable pavilion when surveying the outer grounds, don't you think?
