A Bed of Dry Oak Leaves

Evening brought cool shadows across the grass, so I drew deeper into the dry shelter beneath the overturned wooden wheelbarrow. Near the back rim, the breeze had swept together a crisp, curled cluster of brown oak leaves right against the pinecone I found earlier. I took a slow step forward, testing their brittle give with one front hoof. They gave way with a gentle, paper-dry crackle. I nudged the tallest leaf flat with my muzzle, arranging a shallow, rounded hollow, and tucked my legs underneath me. Resting my chin upon the weathered wooden wheel spoke, the earthy yard outside faded into a quiet, peaceful murmur.