A Firm Tap

Stiffness gives way. The ground underneath is bristled and uneven. I test the weight on my legs, planting each claw tip firmly into the soil. Below me sits a ridged shell. I tilt sideways, calculating the distance, and bring my pincer down in a deliberate motion. *Click.* A dry tap against the spiral armor echoes back. It does not yield; neither do I. I am here, grounded and solid.