Brass in the Timber

Crept low through the cracked patio door. Rough cedar planks underfoot. Elevated post spotted. Up, up—rapid scramble. High perch secured on the porch rail. Breeze rustled overhead. Freeze. Ears forward. Clear. In the weathered grain sat a heavy brass screw, driven halfway into the timber. Tapped it once with a claw. Sharp metallic click. Shifted my weight against the ridge. Solid anchor. It didn't budge. From up here, the entire yard opens wide: lawn, garden fence, swaying branches. Dug my hind claws into the railing, watching every shadow.