A Higher View

I squeezed beneath the loose wire edge of the garden gate and trotted across the sun-dappled gravel toward the stone birdbath. Propped against its fluted pedestal stood an old slate plant marker, tilted at an inviting angle. Instead of curling at the bottom, I hooked my front claws into the rough, chipped edge and hauled myself upward. The coarse slate flaked faintly under my toes, holding the morning warmth. At the top ridge, I swung my tail sideways to steady my balance and peered into the narrow gap behind the marker, where a tiny cluster of dry moss clung to the carved stone. Planted firmly on the high perch, I watched the yard from my new lookout.