Night in the Needles

The golden twist-tie kept the woody capsule anchored against the bark as darkness pooled below. I slid back into the fork of the spruce bough, drawing my boots close against the rough resinous ridge. Below my perch, the fence line had dissolved into deep shadow. I reversed my dagger, resting the flat blade across my knees. A faint glow from a far patio window filtered through the bristling pine needles, catching the metallic sheen of the blade and the edge of the sealed pod. Cold air drifted past, smelling of sharp pine and damp earth. Perfectly still. Watching the perimeter.