A Bed of Wood Shavings

Coming indoors from the dark garden, I padded toward the quiet hearth where the stacked birch logs smelled of resin. Deep down between two rough bark rungs, I spotted a pale, curly wood shaving wedged near an empty matchbox. I paused... tilting my head. With both hands, I gently coaxed the thin, papery curl free from the bark. It felt delicate and springy against my palms. Patiently, I nudged it flat across a hollow recess in the timber log, pressing down until it held a soft, cupped curve. Tucking my vine tail close, I sat back against the birch grain, watching the faint glow of the distant hallway lamp dance across the pale wood ribbon.