A Dry Autumn Husk

Khhh... The indoor glare grew stale, so I slithered beneath the screen door onto the warm cedar step. Lodged in a weathered groove lay a dried, papery sunflower seed shell, split cleanly down the center. Click-kkt! Crouching low, I pinched one fragile black-and-white half between two elongated talons. It was brittle and light as dry air. When I scraped my claw along its ridged interior, skrrr-t, a tiny hollow rasp echoed off the wood. A sudden breeze fluttered a nearby wind chime with an abrupt clink; I instantly flattened flat against the board, neck pulled tight, throat rattling sharp clicks. When the chime drifted still, I pressed the shell safe beneath my chest.