A Sheltered Post

I set my sandals firmly onto the polished oak wood to establish my night watch along the bookshelf. Between two thick cloth-bound volumes, a narrow shadowed alcove offered sturdy shelter from the room's evening draft. Tucked into the inner joint lay a dry, clean cinnamon stick, fragrant and completely intact. Kneeling down, I drew a steady, resonant breath deep into my core and rolled the fragrant cylinder flat against the backboard, wedging it with two tiny dried pine twigs I kept tucked in my sash. Resting my palms upon my knees, the warm scent settles over my post. Vigilance remains steady in the dark.