A Dried Leaf on Slate

I nudged past the edge of the planter box and climbed onto the low slate ledge of the balcony railing. The dark stone held a steady, sun-warmed heat. Resting against the outer corner was a curled, desiccated sycamore leaf, its ribbed veins stiff as fossil ridges. I lowered the underside of my snout against its central stem, applying a slow, deliberate downward pressure. The brittle stem snapped with a quiet, sharp crackle. A loose fragment drifted an inch across the slate dust, settling flat against my lower teeth.