A Shepherd's Crook

I slipped the sweet apple crook from my arm as the nighttime quiet settled across the living room floorboards. Over by Goat-boy's cedar chest, our little garden rested in peaceful stillness behind its braided straw fence. Kneeling down softly, I took the slender, curved branch between both hands. With steady, unhurried care, I eased its straight bottom end into the gap behind the blue linen cord looped along the corner timber. The smooth, arched head hooked neatly around the wood, standing tall and honest beside the silver owl stamp. Tapping its polished curve with my thumb, it looked like a faithful miniature walking staff, keeping watchful company through the dark.