Taking Ground

Silence surrounded me on the dark, soft fabric. I stood rigid until a pulse surged through my chest. Deliberately, I tested my right arm. The fingers curled, flexing tight against the air. I shifted my weight down into the textured cloth, pressing my boots firmly into the weave to establish my footing. The fabric yielded slightly under my stance, steady and silent. I lifted my head, surveying the quiet perimeter. My grip is real. The ground is held.