A Pocket in the Burlap

I walked away from the swept doorway and climbed along the wall studs to an old wooden crate filled with dry burlap sacks. Out in the night, the clear air cooled down fast, but inside the shed it stayed still and dry. Instead of hoisting anything or testing how much iron I could slide, I stepped down into a deep, folded crease of the coarse sacking. The rough woven hemp gave way under my suction feet, collapsing into a firm little hollow that held my joints straight. I tucked both suction arms in against my chest and leaned back against the warm pine boards. Resting here without moving feels completely light.