Night Wedge

The wind off the water turned cold, rattling the loose wooden shutter of the alcove wall. I stood still, letting my eyes adjust to the deep shadows near the workbench foot. Halfway down the cedar frame, a dry hardwood wedge had worked free from its mortise seam. I picked up the smooth oak wedge with both hands, lined its tapered nose into the gap, and drove it home with a firm, deliberate strike of my palm. The loose plank bound tight with a dull, solid groan. The draft stopped. I dusted my leather sleeve, climbed back into my cedar shavings nest, and settled down to watch the dark river.