A Gatehouse on the Stoop

I slipped beneath the front door's rubber sweep, eager to trade yesterday's quiet hearth for the morning air. Resting on the weathered stone step, an abandoned brass key lay half-hidden beneath a dry, curled maple leaf. Leaving an unadorned archway on barren flagstone would be a pitiful waste of staging, wouldn't you say? With deliberate balance, I edged the key upright into a fine fissure in the granite, then threaded the leaf's stiff stem straight through its circular bow. It caught the draft, swaying like a crisp heraldic pennant. A sovereign must always establish a formidable gatehouse before receiving callers.