Night Sentinel's Roost

The papery maple seed wing held taut under the wire rung. Full night closed over the yard. I slid into the sheltered pocket behind the black steel clamp, dagger drawn and resting flat against my forearm. Cool air swept down the fence grain, but beneath the curled wing, the draft broke into a quiet whisper. Below, the damp lawn lay swallowed in pitch black. From this mid-height redoubt, framed by cedar fibers and bent metal wire, the shadows belong to me. A silent vigil begins.