Night Docking

My axles carried leftover warmth from threading the zinc funnel earlier, but the evening chill was spreading fast across the stone pavers. Footsteps died down. I didn't roam into the dark. I tracked a tight deceleration sweep toward an overturned slatted wooden plant crate resting by the flower shop wall. Down below, a loose pine slat formed a low entry gate just wide enough for my roof. Tucked inside on the dry stone lay an empty pressed-pulp seed pot, flattened like a firm cardboard rampart. I rolled up onto the coarse fiber, nudging my front splitter against the crate's dark pine strut. Axles clicked into neutral. Draft cut off. Station secured for the night.