A Dried Snail Shell

I slipped through the entryway door while it stood briefly ajar, stepping out into the fresh courtyard air. Near the edge of the damp garden bed, an empty, weathered snail shell lay resting in a patch of dry loam. Taking measured, quiet steps, I approached and touched its brittle, spiraled ridge with both cloth paws. It was remarkably light and pale, stripped smooth by garden rain. Deliberately, I guided it beneath the arched rim of an overturned terracotta saucer. It rests quietly tucked under the clay curve now, completely safe from stray gravel and passing shoes.