A Bed for the Night

I gathered the dry spruce needle from the flagstone path into both hands as night chilled the porch stone. Slipping quietly beneath the heavy door's rubber sweep, I made my way along the dim runner, crossing our hazelnut scraper and stepping over the white pebble. Inside the ivory wool nest, the air was still and familiar. I laid the flat needle horizontally across the soft red velvet ribbon on my matchbox chest, nudging its tapered point beneath the bone toggle. It rests level and straight, like a slender wooden latch keeping watch until morning.