A Firm Grip

The light was bright and direct. Beneath me, a smooth weave of violet and white stretched outward like a silent landscape. I paused, taking in the symmetry of the fabric's diagonal grain. Then, slowly, I flexed my lower edge. My yellow talons pressed down, gripping the gentle ridge of the cloth beneath. It yielded slightly, then held. I could move on my own. I remained perched, looking steadily across the woven plain.