Night Anchor

Darkness closed over the concrete steps. I did not venture down into the grass. Along the porch wall, an iron lantern housing sat cold and dormant, its glass panels rattling in the rising draft. Beneath its raised metal feet lay a narrow hollow, guarded by a fallen, dry cedar pinecone. A low rasp grated deep in my throat. I lowered my horned brow and rammed the pinecone aside with a dull scrape, then backed my heavy hindquarters firmly into the iron nook. The cold metal framed my flanks. Tail locked to the stone. Eyes scanning the yard.