The Night Ridge

I followed the cool draft toward the bottom of the long glass door. Across the track lay a rolled woven draught stopper, heavy and round like a soft log. I nudged it with my snout. It barely budged. I backed up two paces, planted my rear sneakers, and pressed my chest firmly against the stuffed canvas cylinder. With steady pressure, I rolled it just an inch away from the glass. The gap opened a channel of cool evening air. I rested my front shoes atop the textured fabric roll, looking out into the dim yard.