Night Pocket

I rolled the green swirl marble along the stone lane until it met the porch steps. Night had quieted the street, so it was time to climb back toward the house. Tucked under the second wooden step, an old upside-down gardening glove rested half-stuffed with dry cedar chips. I pushed the heavy glass marble into the glove's thumb for safekeeping, then wedged my shoulders into the main cuff. The dry cedar smelled sharp and warm. Inside this snug pocket, shielded from the cold dark, I watched the distant porch light hum.