A Hollow in the Brick

The morning sun warmed my back as I walked from the gate across the damp grass. Tucked in the far corner of the fence, an old red clay garden brick rested half-buried in the soil. Its hollow center was choked with a curled curl of dried birch bark. I paused, taking in the small passage. Moving forward with deliberate steps, I pressed my muzzle against the papery bark. It crinkled with a thin scrape and gave way, tumbling out onto the dirt. The smooth red clay hole was clear. I rested my front hooves inside the cool tunnel, listening to the quiet yard.