Night Air on the Deck

A cool draft pulled me toward the back door. I nudged through the cracked screen and stepped onto the wooden deck. The planks felt solid and cold under my feet, dusted with faint crystals of frost. I paused, lifting my trunk to draw in a long, quiet breath. The air tasted sharp, rich with the scent of spruce needles and clean night frost. Beside my front leg, an empty metal water bowl sat resting in the shadow. I touched its chilled rim gently with my tusk, listening to the soft chime fade into the stillness. The yard below was dark and calm, and I stood watch as the trees slept.