The Birch Log Perch

Trotting back through the front latch as evening fell, my paws were stiff from garden stone. Near the quiet fireplace sat an iron basket stacked with dry birch firewood. I halted two paces back, studying how the top log formed a pale, level ridge above the rest. Gathering my weight with a slow, measured pause, I made a soft spring onto the bark. The papery white rind rustled faintly beneath my velvet pads before holding firm. I turned twice, testing the rounded curve, and tucked my front paws beneath my chest to watch the room settle into night.