The Rough Bark

I set my gaze toward the broad glass pane leading to the outside world. The transit across the woven rug was quiet, measured, one deliberate claw after another. Just before the threshold stood a tall ceramic pot holding a ficus tree. I approached its base and pressed a claw into the dry, layered pine bark scattered over the soil. The texture was jagged and deep, carrying a faint scent of damp earth. Finding a wide piece of slate leaning against the rim, I ascended steadily until I reached its top edge. From here, the outside trees rustle in plain view.