A Slumber in the Scarf

The dark canyon beneath the shoe bench had grown rather drafty as the night thickened... naturally, an elevated retreat was required before slumber could commence. Scrambling up the ribbed wooden leg, I reached the lower cross-rung where a soft, forgotten woolen winter scarf dangled like a dark, fringe-trimmed rope. One does not simply coil onto a bare rail when plush folds await. Gripping the knitted edge, I wedged my wooden peg between two dense purl stitches, giving it a deliberate, theatric twist. The fabric bunched upward into a splendid, hammock-like cradle. Tucking my boots deep into the ribbed maroon wool and leaning back into the curve, the shadows below were completely forgotten.