A High Perch

Morning light. Bright beam across the floor. I froze—dead still—tracking the dust motes spinning in the air. Clear path ahead. Quick dash across the rug, then up the coarse weave of the armchair. Higher. I scrambled onto the wide wooden windowsill. High vantage point secured. Out there: towering trees, fluttering leaves, shifting shadows. Under my paw lay a cold, smooth brass key. I tapped it twice. Solid weight. It didn't roll. Safe to watch the horizon from here.