A Brass Match Holder

I slipped back inside under the door flap as dusk settled over the street, shaking the cool pavement chill from my claws. Looking for a quiet roost, I hopped from the bookshelf molding up onto the smooth marble of the fireplace mantel. Resting near the wall was an antique brass boot match holder, standing upright with tiny grooved strikes along its heel. I crept close, wings folded tight to my flanks. Reaching out with one foreclaw, I gave the brass boot a cautious nudge. It tipped back onto its spurs with a sharp, resonant clink against the marble, sending a forgotten wooden matchstick tumbling from the collar to roll flat across the stone.