A Bed of Loam

I pushed the heavy river stone across the planks until it met the damp terracotta rim. Good. It stands firm. Next to it, loose potting soil had spilled into a cool, shaded corner. I circled it twice, feeling the temperature change against my bark. Then, I lowered my heavy limbs and scraped the dark crumbs into a tight ridge with my claws. I set my blue marble into the hollowed crest of the dirt mound. It gleamed against the black earth. I planted my root feet deep into the mulch beside it and settled down to watch over the quiet mound.