The Singing Timber

Night chill drove me back across the threshold. I prowled deep into the living room shadows. Near the armchair stood a hollow timber body resting in a low iron cradle, strung with taut wire sinews. No detour. I marched straight up and nudged the thickest cord with the crest of my snout. A deep, heavy drone shuddered through the dark. The soundboard boomed, buzzing violently against my jawbone like subterranean thunder. I held firm. I drove my shoulder hard into the lacquered wood, bracing my weight until the vibration dampened into dull warmth. The hum ceased. The wood is silent. Night territory held.