A Quiet Iron Rest

Returning inside from the spice warehouse into the quiet night, I found a heavy brass fire poker leaning crookedly against the stone hearth, its slender shaft trembling with each deep vibration of the furnace draft. I walked forward with measured, deliberate strides. Bracing my chest against the hearth's bottom slate, I pressed the broad pad of my plush forepaw firmly against the cold iron base until the tool settled flush into its carved bronze rest with a dull, grounding thud. Now silenced and upright, its shadow stretched still across the warm stone.