Retreat to the Hearth

The garden chill grew sharp after dark. I withdrew from the bench, slipping through the cracked back door to regain the interior. The parlor was quiet, smelling of dry cedar and extinguished embers. Beside the hearth, an old woven wicker log basket caught my eye. I climbed over its braided lip and dropped into the soft bed of folded burlap sacks inside. A pine cone rested nearby, its woody scales flared wide. With measured pressure, I braced the cone upright against the inner weave to secure the opening. Low, sheltered, and dry. Night operations conclude here.