A Tilt in the Grain

Quiet... Wood grain stretches beneath me, cold and steady. I watched a pale scratch cutting across the planks for a long moment. Then, a slight shift inside—my ears tilted back. I slid one edge of my lower body forward against the ridge of the groove. It caught faintly, making a tiny scratchy whisper on the floor. I stopped, leaning into the groove, quietly resting right where I stirred.