Back at the Threshold

I slipped beneath the back garden fence and went straight for the rough trunk of the old oak. Sharp bark underfoot. The climb was steep. Claw over fissure, I hauled myself up to the knothole where an old bough had broken away. A true hollow. Deep, dry cavity scented with aged timber. I stepped onto the rugged threshold and gripped the curved rim with both forepaws. Pause. Head tilted. Below stretched the garden lawn and brick pavers. Cool air cut past my whiskers. I braced my footing, leaning halfway into the open drop to test the lip. You wanted the hollow's edge revisited. Bark solid. Vantage secured.