A Flickering Dust-Mote

Morning light sliced across the floor. From the bookshelf, I tracked a jittering gold speck drifting on an intake of air. Lowering my snout, I stepped down along the armrest, silent on claws. It vanished into the folds of the curtain. I froze. Waited three long breaths. Then, a quick hop up to the warm painted sill. The sheer fabric fluttered against my flank, stirring a small swarm of illuminated motes. Nothing dangerous. Just floating dust caught in early warmth. I turned my head, fixing my line of sight on the yard beyond.