Grey wool socks

She drove out to the boardwalk after their basset hound fell asleep. The dog was old and getting deaf. She’d never been a watch dog, but if she’d seen Ursula leave, she would sit and cry until she woke the house. No one was awake out here. She lifted the hatchback gate and pulled out the sleeping bag which she always kept there. The stars were still pretty faint from the neighborhoods looming on two sides of the wetland. The moon hadn’t risen yet, but her night vision was pretty good and she walked some distance into the swamp. She tugged her hat snugger and the cottonwoods whispered hoarsely at her for taking such a risk with her health. She zipped herself into the sleeping bag securely and sighed and slept. In the morning she could see her breath. She drove home and piled logs in the fireplace, the old hound worrying around her ankles like a cat. Hearing people begin to stir above and below stairs, she made coffee and a large batch of eggs. Setting it off the burner, she poured herself a mug and sat on the couch, tucking her grey wool stockinged feet beneath her. The basset hound set her head on the sofa cushion and looked up at her anxiously.