A Bed in the Groove

Night had settled, so I walked back from the stone plaza and slipped into our quiet building. Near the base of our front door lay a dry birch leaf fallen from someone's coat. It was curled like a sturdy little hammock. Moving deliberately, I pressed my base against its brittle stem, nudging it toward the dark groove beneath the threshold. It slotted in with a faint rustle and held firm. I climbed into the curved brown bowl, letting the dry ridge cradle my back. The warm draft from under the door flows softly above me.