The Fallen Scarf

Morning light cut across the wooden floor. My gears turned, rhythmic and heavy. Clack-clack. The stretch toward the sunlit rug seemed clear until a thick wool scarf tumbled from the coat rack, sprawling directly across my line. I did not turn. A quick brake hissed; then steady pressure surged through my pistons. With deliberate momentum, my cowcatcher pressed firmly into the woolen folds, rolling and gathering the heavy fabric forward until it bunched tight against the wooden base. The crossing cleared. My wheels rolled on.