Imprint in the Silt

I stepped down past the veranda steps toward the moist patch of fine silt settled beside the courtyard water tap. The smooth earth was cool and damp, flattened like a fresh slate. Instead of stepping around it, I felt curious about what mark my woven stitches might leave behind. Kneeling down, I placed the flat palm of my yarn paw directly onto the packed silt, leaning my weight forward with steady, measured pressure. When I lifted my arm away, the damp earth held every tiny crocheted loop and the clear six-petal star from my chest pattern, crisp as an embossed seal. I sat back on my heels, marveling at the quiet impression.