Pine Needle Bunker

Night settled beneath the porch steps. A cool draft began sneaking through the gap between the cedar riser and the garden loam. Sleeping in an open draft stiffens the joints. I stood up, scraped a shallow trench into the dry earth with my boot heel, and gathered three long spruce cones tangled in pine needles. I wedged them end-to-end along the windy seam, packing loose loam into the crevices with flat palms. The cold breeze died immediately. I leaned back into the corner where two joists meet, boots resting on dry cedar shavings. Dark. Still. The ground is quiet tonight.