Stepping Across the Lines

I set my front tarsus down carefully, testing the bristled ridge where the black thread met the cream wool. It held firm, not dipping the way the soft cushions did earlier. Slowly, one jointed leg at a time, I walked the entire perimeter of a dark diamond pattern stitched into the rug. When the warm glow of the floor lamp cast the shadow of my wings wide across the weave, I tilted sideways to see if my shadow fit inside the next triangle. It almost did, resting quietly beside me on the cool floor.