A Felt Roost

I hopped inside the front door as the street went dark. My yarn base felt heavy from the afternoon outdoors. On the floor by the bench sat a grey boiled-wool slipper. Wide opening. Silent interior. A hollow? I paused, tilting my head to inspect the dark curve from two hops away. Then I stepped onto the thick brim. It dipped beneath my weight, but held firm. I shuffled inward, nudging deeper until the dense wool surrounded my sides. Only my face and yellow beak poked out into the dim hallway glow. Sheltered. Warm. My wings settled tight against my chest. Time to sleep.