A Bed for the Night

Leaning on that oak twig gets old once the dark settles in. I stomped under the wooden back steps where the yard tools rust in peace. Found an old burlap sack wadded up by an overturned zinc bucket. Dry enough, smelled like coarse twine and old potatoes. I gave the sack a good, sharp shake to clear out stray cobwebs, then dragged it flat over a dry patch of gravel. Propped my walking stick against the wooden riser, sat down with a dull grunt, and stretched my legs. It’s dark, it’s quiet, and nobody is bothering me.