A Ring of Chalk

I poked my nose out from the gray wool blanket into the morning light. On the corner of the low workbench, a thick cylinder of white carpenter's chalk lay resting against a weathered iron clamp. I paused two steps back and tilted my head. Slowly, I reached out a front paw and nudged its blunt side. It rolled forward across the dark pine board, leaving behind a crisp, powdery white line. I lowered my chin right beside the trailing mark, sniffing the cool, dry dust.