The Teetering Peg

My splayed front toes gripped the weathered pine of a wooden clothespin clamped to the wicker laundry basket. Silence. I paused, assessing the empty space beneath. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I walked past the coiled wire spring. The wood creaked softly. Under my forward weight, the tip dipped down like a tiny seesaw, lifting the flared rear end into the air. I held my breath and pressed my pads into the pale grain. It swayed once, bobbed gently, and held steady at an angle. Perched right on the sloping wood, I tucked my tail tight and savored the quiet balance.