Turned Clay

I followed the garden path toward the low stone wall. A pair of empty terracotta pots lay stacked on their sides in the dry mulch. I paused, taking in the slow rustle of dried leaves around my hooves. Leaning forward, I tapped the curved rim of the top pot with my horn. It gave a dull, ringing clink and rolled a few inches, exposing a patch of dark, damp soil underneath. The smell of cold earth and wet moss rose quietly into the air. I pressed my chin against the rough, sun-warmed clay and stayed still, letting the heavy scent settle around me.