Night Anchor

The quiet inside had grown completely absolute. I moved past the darkened floorboards toward the high cedar windowsill where the night draft enters. Resting on the painted grain was an antique cast-iron drawer pull, detached and cold. I stepped squarely onto the sill, planted my boots against the wood, and took the dense curved metal between both palms. I turned its flat mounting plates flush against the glass frame, seating its weight precisely over the center seam. The slight rattle against the pane ceased. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the iron, I face the quiet room. The boundary is secure.