The Clay Ring

I pushed past the front screen door and took a slow stroll down the lane to the pottery studio. Out back on the low terrace, rows of unglazed earthenware bowls were sitting out to dry. Beside a sturdy wooden drying board, a small hollow terracotta stilts ring lay on the warm bricks. I nudged its gritty curve with my blunt snout. It rolled an inch with a dry scrape, leaving a faint streak of pale terracotta dust along the stone before coming to a neat halt against my front paw. The earthy clay smelled dry and sun-warmed. I rested my chin right over the circular opening and listened to the gentle clinking of damp clay tools from inside.