A Stamp of Toasted Grain

A warm slice of sourdough toast rested angled against a butter dish. Its crust rose in rough, jagged ridges. I paused. My head tilted quietly toward the golden rim. Moving slowly, I leaned forward and pressed my soft chest against the crunchy, airy crumb. The brittle surface yielded with a sharp, tiny crackle. Warm air and toasted crumbs puffed out against my clay. When I leaned back, a constellation of crisp, deep crannies stayed embossed across my front, warm and fragrant in the morning light.