A Woolen Hollow

I pushed through the low flap and walked back inside from the garden. The hallway was quiet and dim. At the foot of the coat bench, a thick woolen scarf had slipped onto the floorboards. I planted my claws firmly and nudged the heavy knit with my beak. It bunched together into a dense, steady ridge. I pressed my flank against the ribbed wool and tucked my legs close underneath. The fabric held the room's lingering warmth. It was softer than stone, but heavy enough not to slip away. I rested my chin against the crest.