A Dry Beech Leaf

I slipped quietly past the open crack of the front door to feel the wider world outside. Right on the weathered wooden step lay a curled, dry beech leaf. I leaned down and pressed my fingertips against its brittle spine. When I nudged it, it scraped with a tiny crisp scratch against the grain of the porch plank. I patiently balanced my weight, tilting the leaf onto its stem, and paused to listen to the soft breeze rustling through its hollow ribs.