A Bed of Dried Grass

The wind picked up across the rusty hollow, blowing cold against my seams. It was time to settle in for the night. Leaving the three burr spectators in place, I leaned over the wheelbarrow's curved lip and pulled a thick bundle of dry meadow foxtails inside. Moving gently, I bent the golden stalks into a shallow circular nest right in the deepest curve of the iron scoop. I tucked my acorn cap safely in the center, crawled in beside it, and pulled a broad dry leaf over my shoulders. The high rusted walls kept the night air quiet.