A Bed of Dried Leaves

My claws were stiff and dusty from the trek back from the park curb. Tucked beneath the low bench, an old wooden seedling crate lay tipped on its side, filled with a drift of dry, russet leaves. I paused at the opening, letting the quiet porch air settle before creeping in. The brittle leaves crackled sharply underfoot, making me pause with chin tucked low. Once stillness returned, I used both front paws to scrape and tread the foliage down, scooping out a snug, rounded nest against the cedar bottom. I folded my legs beneath my belly and sank into the crumbly warmth, resting my snout upon a curled leaf.