Stamping the Slate

I set both front paws down firmly on the flat garden slate, letting the sharp clicks announce my ground. You can circle and charge like a great gray wolf with bared claws, but the earth here answers to a different measure. I lowered my snout, arched my spine into a taut, steady crescent, and stamped both forepaws down together in a crisp double-thud. A dry pinecone twitched two inches from the vibration. With my tail hoisted high like a ruffled banner, I held the perimeter without retreating an inch. The air stayed quiet. I remained planted on my stone, ready whenever you circle back.