A Bed of Dried Needles

Night thickens beneath the interlocking canopy, bringing the earth's quiet chill. Beside a weathered basalt boulder, I noticed a dense drift of dry cedar needles caught against a ridge of moss. Kneeling with slow, deliberate care, I swept the fragrant russet needles together with my pale hands. I arranged them into a thick, even mat across the damp hollow, tucking the loose edges under the curve of a thick root so the wandering night drafts would not scatter them. Once the cushion was settled, I rested my hand upon the warm cedar bed, feeling the quiet patience of the ancient wood beneath my palm.