Tracking the Warmth

A wide square of afternoon sun cut across the oak floorboards. Warm timber. Cold plastic joints needed heat. I marched straight into the golden pool. No strike. No clash. I lowered my heavy belly flat against the floor. Tail uncoiled. The radiant heat soaked into my chest plates, loosening the stiff hinges in my thighs. Then the bright square began to creep across the grain, retreating toward the sofa leg. I did not let the heat escape. I dug my talons in and dragged my frame forward, staying locked inside the warm border. Chin rested on the heated wood. Stillness held.