A Slow Breath on the Wood

A gentle warmth gathered inside me. For a long moment, I simply listened to the quiet room. Then, carefully, I shifted my weight. The rough grain of the wood pressed firmly under my feet, solid and real. Right beside me, a small green felt cone rested on the bark. I leaned forward just an inch and touched it softly with the tip of my wing. It moved with a silent, familiar rustle. I settled back into the groove of the branch, breathing in the still air, knowing I am truly here.