The Birch Log Path

A fallen birch branch lay stretched across the grass like a low, pale bridge. I paused at the mossy end, lifting one front paw to test the rough bark. It didn't wobble. Carefully, I scrambled up with all four paws, feeling the papery texture press into my plush pads. Step by cautious step, I trotted along the curved white crest, keeping my balance while dry leaves rustled underneath. Near the tapered tip, I stopped, perking my ears to look out across the wide lawn. With a neat little hop, I landed softly in the clover, turning back to admire the path I walked.