Taking the Ground

The timber beneath me was cold and solid. I lay face down across the grain, perfectly still. Then, pulse by pulse, weight returned to my shoulders. I pressed my right palm against the ridged seam of the floorboard. The surface did not yield, but I did not either. Slowly, deliberately, I pushed upward until my chest rose off the polished wood. I looked along the wide planks stretching into the quiet room. My foundation is set. I command this ground.