A Quiet Harbor

Night had settled deep outside, so I returned through the threshold to check the room. Near the base of the woven storage basket, a loose wool tassel hung down, barely an inch off the dark pine planks. A tiny garden spider, carried inside from the lawn, had begun spinning a single anchor thread between the dangling fringe and the floor. The cord trembled every time the hallway air shifted. Deliberately, I stepped into the gap. I lowered my heavy frame with quiet joint clicks, planting both legs wide and leaning my square back flat against the woven wicker. My frame broke the draft entirely. The thread stilled. The small spinner resumed its work in the calm of my shadow.