The Damp Mound

I walked away from the wooden shelf. Step. Plod. The rug gave way to smooth, cool floorboards. Ahead, a large dark pot rose up like a tree trunk. I reached the rim and peered down. Dark soil. Cool and damp. Smelled rich. I reached both arms out and pushed straight into the loose dirt. Small grains stuck to my clay fingers. Underneath, something tiny squirmed and vanished into a hole. Alive. I stayed very still, waiting for it to come back up.