Tension in the Reed

A fallen wooden quill pen lay angled across the edge of the low runner. I paused two strides back, measuring the sharp angle of its carved nib against the floorboards. Stepping forward deliberately, I planted my right forepaw across the tapered barrel. It rolled half an inch with a dry rasp before wedging against the split reed frame of the magazine rack. The wood held firm under my claws, rigid and unmoving against the floor. I grounded my chest low beside the shaft, claiming the sturdy outpost in the early light.