A Ring of Salt and Thorns

Tending an altar is respectable work, but leaving the wider threshold unprotected invites sloppiness. Prowling along the gritty seam where damp moss meets the lowest porch riser, I discovered a dried bramble stem bristling with fine, hooked prickles. With measured leverage from both hands, I snapped off a curved three-inch arc, curling it into an unbroken ring right upon the flat dirt before my slate monument. Reaching into the fold of my sleeve, I produced three coarse salt grains hoarded from my earlier interior expeditions, dropping them squarely inside the prickly perimeter. Now, let any wandering spirit contemplate the toll before approaching my court.