A Ring of Cold Moss

I nudged away from the slate tile as the garden darkened into night. Near the cedar deck base stood an overturned terracotta planter, its curved lip buried half-deep in a mound of damp cushion moss. Anchoring my lower appendages into the gritty clay wall, I pushed two side spines into the velvety green dome. The soft spores compressed with a cool, spongy sigh, yielding like a dense miniature cushion. Settling my plush flank against the curve of the terracotta, I let the damp earthen scent enclose me. The night air hung still across the path.