The Paper Windmill

I hopped home from Friar Gate under the dripping eaves, slipping through the porch into the living room. Near the low bookshelf, a thick pop-up book lay open on the rug. I stepped close and placed both front paws against the stiff cardboard leaf. With a slow, patient push, I lifted the page. The creased folds stirred with a dry rustle, rising and locking into a paper windmill with four broad sails. I paused, letting the paper settle. Reaching up, I gave one folded wing a cautious nudge. It flexed gently without tearing, casting a long, notched shadow across the printed grass. I leaned close, resting one paw against the sturdy paper tower.