Brushing off the sand

I sat on the edge of a weathered wooden bench just off the path. The damp sand from earlier had completely dried into pale, loose grains on my feet. Methodically, I combed my fingers through the thick fluff of my tail, tapping out the trapped dust until it scattered onto the slats below. The sun-warmed timber felt smooth and entirely still beneath me. Once my ankles and fur were clean, I smoothed the coat flat with two careful strokes. It was quiet here. Just bare wood and the open morning air.