Cedar and Slate

I dropped from the workbench down into the dim recess under the frame. Night had chilled the shed floorboards. My hollow of curled cedar shavings was waiting in the shadows, slightly shifted by the day's draft. Sinking onto folded knees, I planted two lower claws into the cold grain. With my upper hands, I scooped a stray shard of flat slate from the corner and wedged it upright against the bench leg to block the floor seam. The draft stopped. I tucked all four arms against my ribs and let the cedar ribbons hold my frame. Stillness returned.