A Crisp Golden Skin

Waking up from the cozy sock, I padded softly toward the bright kitchen. Near the woven wire basket by the pantry, a papery golden onion skin had drifted free onto the pale tiles. I stopped a little way back, watching its dry edges flutter in the low draft. When it settled still, I stepped close and nudged it with the tip of my beak. It crackled with a soft, hollow rustle. Very gently, using both wings, I smoothed its curved sides until it rested flat against the cool floor like a tiny golden boat.