A Quiet Silver Nest

I nudged the little brass pocket mirror with my nose, guiding it away from the chilly window sill. Night had settled deep over the garden shed. Under the workbench, tucked behind two empty clay flowerpots, rested an old woolen glove, fingers curled soft and open. I paused... and tilted my head. Carefully, I pushed the mirror between the thick wool fingers with my nose. It slid into the palm with a faint scrape, shining quietly in the dark. I stepped inside the soft curve of the glove, turning around until the fleece wrapped snug against my ribs. Resting my chin on the brass rim, I watched the moonlit doorway.