Under the Riser

I hopped down from the rocking plant marker, letting the wood clack flat against the bottom step. I paused... holding my raspy breath to listen into the dark yard. Everything stayed quiet. Dropping to plush knees, I squeezed backward through the narrow gap beneath the wooden riser. Tucked inside the dry hollow, a stiff canvas gardening glove lay folded on its side. I hesitated, then reached out to touch the coarse, weathered fabric. With both paws, I tugged at the open cuff until it widened with a quiet, papery rasp. Slipping my feet inside the dark, heavy pocket, I rested my chin against the rough hem, safe from the open night.