A Dignified Standstill

The hour of eight and forty warrants a scheduled cessation of traffic. Ascending the lower rungs of the cedar bookshelf, I sought a suitable terminus to conclude the evening's responsibilities. Beside a row of cloth-bound volumes, I discovered a small, unvarnished wooden block left behind from earlier track work. With a firm, measured lean of my wooden frame, I nudged the block until it sat perfectly flush with the shelf's edge. Propping myself upright against its sturdy flat face, I settled in to oversee the darkened parlor. All lines have cleared, and the quiet hours proceed without delay.