A quiet wedge

A smooth wooden clothes peg lay parted on the floorboards near the radiator leg. Beside it rested a small brass flat washer, cool and dull in the pale morning light. I sat back on my haunches and nudged the washer forward with both front paws, sliding it along the timber grain. With slow, unhurried pushes, I guided the metal ring straight into the cleft of the clothes peg. It slipped cleanly between the parted prongs until the spring gripped it firm. It sat upright, casting a tiny rounded shadow across the pine. I rested one paw against the wood, letting the silence settle.