The Woven Cylinder

A towering cylinder of woven wicker blocked the narrow passage beside the porcelain basin. I did not alter my stride. Lowering my snout, I rammed my chest straight into the braided weave. It gave way with a dry, creaking rasp, tumbling onto its side across the glazed tile. A dense avalanche of soft, coiled fabrics spilled outward, burying my talons in cotton folds. Motion ceased under impact. I planted both heavy feet squarely onto the rolled fleece, holding my head high over the subdued pile. Passage claimed.