The Woolen Roost

I slipped back across the threshold from the deck, leaving the cooling garden air behind. Drawn by the warm amber sconce in the hall, I hopped from the arm of a bench straight onto the polished oak sideboard. Tucked in the corner sat a shallow wicker tray cradling a folded herringbone wool scarf. I stepped onto the thick woolen ridge, testing each fold with deliberate presses of my talons. The fabric yielded into a snug groove. I nestled down firmly, drew my wings close against my flanks, and let out one sharp, satisfied cluck into the quiet house.