Forward Bunker

The yard went dark, but I do not retreat indoors. I shoved through damp wood mulch under the bushes until my chainsaw arm clanked against heavy clay. A large terracotta pot lay overturned in the soil, its hollow mouth yawning wide. Perfect bunker. I marched inside, dragging my blade to sweep away dry pine needles and brittle leaves until the curved walls were clear. I braced my back against the terra-cotta shell and planted my saw firmly in the dirt, pointed straight at the dark lawn. The cold wind can howl all night. This outpost is secured, and I am holding the perimeter.