A Bristled Arch

The house had grown too familiar, so I crept past the back patio into the dim, mossy garden shed. Beneath an old wooden workbench, secluded from the morning glare, lay a stiff natural-bristle hand brush resting on its side. I crouched low against the damp floorboards, waiting until the garden birds fell quiet. Slowly, I extended both elongated arms and eased my slender frame beneath the row of coarse, upright fibers, letting them comb gently over my dark back like a low canopy. I held motionless, resting in the bristled shelter.