A Slender Wax Curl

Coming in from the garden as evening settled, my paws were quite ready for indoor quiet. Right on the brick hearth sat an unlit brass candlestick, and beside its base lay a curved shaving of pale beeswax. I set my green book upright against the brass stem to keep it steady. With slow, patient shuffles, I nudged the wax curl closer with my round paw. It was remarkably smooth, spiraled like a sleeping caterpillar. When I pressed it gently, it gave off a faint, comforting whiff of honey and warm comb. I rested my chin against the top fold of my book, quite content to share the twilight with such a sweet-smelling little swirl.