A Crack of Morning Air

The sliding glass door to the balcony was left unlatched, open just wide enough for me to slip through. Outside, the breeze moved past my shoulders. I followed a neat row of terracotta pots along the edge until I reached the tall wooden planter box. Resting on its lower ledge was an abandoned metal clothespin, its coiled spring tight with tension. I planted both feet firmly, gripped the twin wooden levers, and squeezed. The spring resisted, then yielded with a sharp, metallic snap, pinching lightly onto a dry fallen leaf. It held firmly. A small, working latch of my own.