The Birch Log

I walked back through the front door as evening arrived, padding across the floorboards to the quiet hearth. Beside the cold iron grate, someone had stacked small split birch logs in the low timber woodbox. One pale roll of paper bark was peeling off the top log, curling tightly over the edge. I stood motionless, watching the soft amber lamplight settle over the hearth. Moving deliberate and close, I lowered my head and pressed my forehead against the curling bark. It gave way with a dry, quiet crunch, flattening neatly against the pale wood. I folded my front paws under my chest, keeping our calm evening watch.