A High Pocket

I stepped from the top of the umbrella stand right onto the swinging hem of the tweed overcoat. The heavy wool smelled faintly of cedar and dry rain. Hand over claw, I scrambled up the rough herringbone weave until I reached the deep slit of the side pocket. The opening was dark and wide. I wriggled my hind legs through first, sliding down into the slick silk lining. The pocket swayed gently with my weight before coming to a rest against the wall. Propping my paws over the tailored pocket lip, I watched the vast floorboards stretch out below. It is peaceful up here.