Balcony Ridge

Marched past the rug. Squeezed my flank through the narrow gap in the sliding door. Out. The breeze hit my snout. Rough stone tiles beneath my claws. Cold. Ahead stood three terracotta giants. Tall green fronds rustled above them. Jungle canopy. I marched to the widest pot and pressed my snout against the coarse red rim. Sniffed. Smelled of damp soil and sun-baked dust. I leaned my weight forward and shoved. Heavy friction. Grated half an inch, then held firm. Solid rock. A true fortress. I dug my hind claws into the gritty saucer rim. High vantage over the roaring street. Mine.