A Slanted Bridge

A flat wooden paint stirrer was lying beside the wicker hamper, tilted slightly over the raised hem of a canvas bag. I gave the narrow handle a steady nudge with my stubby flipper. It didn't roll; it pivoted across the polished floorboards with a dry, hollow scrape until the wide flat end rested firmly on top of a low wooden block. A tiny bridge had taken shape. I took two slow, measured steps forward and guided my front flippers underneath the slanted span. The smooth pine hovered just above my round shell, casting a crisp line of morning shadow right across my nose. Settling my belly flat against the warm oak boards, I rested my chin in the quiet shade.