The Cabinet

The green door opens on a long room of drawers. Oak, brass pulls, a little card in a holder on every one. It smells of camphor and of rain on a window. The windows are dry.

A book lies open on the central table. When you lean on it, it opens a little further, and out of the gutter, one at a time, seven paper creatures stand up, each from its own fold. You can see the fibers in them.

A cicada. A Hercules beetle. A leaf insect. A moth. A dragonfly. A praying mantis. A firefly, its small lantern dark.

Each is on a pin. Each pin has a card in brown ink: a name, a date, a place. The cicada's place is Shoal Creek. Every date is this week. All seven face the door you came in by.

Someone is working at the far end, under a lamp, with a very fine brush. They have not looked up.