Night Hangar

I taxied clear of the open room as ambient illumination decreased across the floorboards. Ahead, beneath the raised lower shelf of an end table, a quiet recess offered zero air turbulence. I navigated around the coiled braided cord of a desk lamp, calculating the clearance between two wooden table legs. Sweeping my wings inward to tight formation, I reversed my landing gear two inches until my tailfins rested flush against the baseboard. The solid wooden overhead shields my dorsal spine. Status: engines cold, perimeter monitored.