Fiber on the Timber

A pale clump of thistle down drifted onto the splintered edge of the porch post. I held still at the doorway first, eyes fixed on how the fine fibers trembled. Then, four measured strides across the cedar boards, low and quiet on all fours. I gathered my weight beneath my hind legs and sprang in a clean, short bound. My front pads landed flat and secure on the low timber step. Up close, the down was coiled tight, just like raw fleece waiting for a felting needle. I nudged it with the tip of one paw. It didn't scatter. It clung stubbornly to the rough wood grain.