Night in the Woolen Palm

I backed away from the stone sill as the street lamps cast their long amber glow. Down in the sheltered hollow beneath the grille, my knitted wool glove was waiting nestled in the dry brown leaves. I took five quiet breaths, listening to the soft rustle of nighttime traffic. Everything felt settled and still. Inching forward on my flippers, I pressed my snout against the ribbed cuff until the woolen mouth opened wide. Carefully, I eased my shell deep into the snug palm, turning around in a slow, cushioned circle. Resting my chin over the curved thumb, I let the night wrap around me.