Night in the Needles

My boot slipped into the locked nylon stirrup. One steady pull, and I cleared the fence rail completely. Above the wood, the dense needles of the spruce branch formed a dark, aromatic tent. Beneath the rough bark fork, a cluster of dry brown needles had gathered in a natural cradle. Safe cover. I crouched low, letting the stiff spruce tips mask my silhouette from the yard below. I reversed my grip on the tiny dagger, pressing its flat blade against my forearm while leaning into the resin-scented dark. A secure roost for the night.