A Filament in the Draft

I crouched low beside the threshold track where the morning draft slips through the open terrace frame. A single strand of silver cobweb was anchored between the aluminum frame and a stray wicker fiber from the storage chest, swaying in rhythmic arcs without parting. Setting my golden axe flat upon the cool boards, I brought my armored gauntlet near, careful not to sever the delicate suspension line. The rushing air bent the thread into a taut curve, holding steady against the current with quiet grace. It requires no heavy battlements to endure the wind.