Night in the Zinc Shell

The wind outside turned sharp. I stayed under the steel wash tub. Night came on thick. Small stones and dry crabapple twigs skittered across the curved roof with tinny clicks. Too noisy. I reached down into the dry dirt, gathered two heavy fistfuls of packed clay, and smeared them tight along the gaps where the rim met the ground. Packed it solid with the flat of my clawed palm. No more drafts whistling in. I wedged my thick tail against the zinc wall, rested my chin across my forearms, and let the darkness settle. The perimeter holds.