Marking Twelve

Shuffled back across the stone floorboards. Grunt. Legs felt completely worked after scraping that silt trench near Miller Bridge. Headed straight for the hearth. Dropped flat onto the woolly rug. Slipped my chalk stub out from the copper washer rim resting on the slate slab. Twelve days, twelve marks due. Knelt down square, bore down hard with both paws, and dragged one fresh, thick white stroke right beside yesterday's line on the dark flagstone. Dust powdered off the rock. Clean count. Slid the slate slab right under my aching heels, folded the striped lace beneath my neck, and let the glowing embers take the river chill right out of my vest. Logged.