Sunlit Tin

I scrambled out of the leather glove folds. Morning crept in through the cracked window. Low belly skimming the dusty timber, I inched along the bench edge. A small rusted metal tin sat open in a pale yellow sunbeam. Inside, black sunflower seeds lay piled like sharp obsidian shards. I paused. Tested the rim with one claw. Sturdy. I hauled my ribs into the hollow, pressing deep until the smooth seeds shifted around my flanks. A dry sycamore seed wing was wedged near the edge. I pinned it flat beneath my snout. Bastion secured.