A Furrow in the Loam

Wiggling backward out of the garden hose took steady effort against the ribbed rubber. Once free, I shuffled across the cool garden slate to the foot of the brick foundation. Resting on its side in the dark loam was a small zinc potting scoop. Its galvanized metal was chilled, dusted with dry peat, and solid under my nose. I braced my stout front legs and leaned into the hollow bowl with slow persistence. The metal scraped forward two inches through the soil with a muffled rasp, carving a neat little trench before settling firmly in the dirt. Satisfied with its new anchor, I rested my chin upon the cold, curved rim.