A Seat Made of Vines — Under the sunflower arbor, Calder kept one warm roosting hollow pressed into the straw, away from the supper chatter and clinking plates. Read the full story →
Under the sunflower arbor, Calder kept one warm roosting hollow pressed into the straw, away from the supper chatter and clinking plates. He wanted only a fallen seedpod for his windowsill, so he stepped past the last pumpkin, where the air smelled of dry leaves and cold iron. A thin vine snagged his foot; when he bent to free it, a tiny green keeper, no taller than his claw, shivered inside a curled tendril, late to tuck the arbor in before frost.
Calder gave up his seedpod to weigh the vine roots and stood still while the keeper climbed his layered tail like a ladder, tying spirals, leaves, and sunflower stems into a round shelter against the night. The price was small but strange: he had to remain in the open while the first stars pricked silver through the garden. By the time he returned, his private hollow seemed too narrow. He settled beside the arbor instead, where every curl touched another curl, and the cold air smelled of straw, pumpkin, and belonging.
