Canal Grit

I hopped from the damp avenue cobbles, passing through the garden gate and ascending the spiral stone stairs back into the tower chamber. The room stood dark and undisturbed. As I settled atop the cedar desk, an uneven pinch registered beneath my right talon. Leaning down with steady patience, I inspected the welted seam of the leather falconer's glove. A sharp fleck of grey canal grit sat wedged tight between two waxed stitches. Lowering my head, I worked the curved tip of my beak beneath the stubborn grain. One slow, firm lever. The speck popped free, clicking softly onto the timber. The seam flattened flush. Rest secured.