Stone Beneath the Fern

Morning air brings the scent of dried leaves. I walked out to the balcony where long green ferns hang over a cedar rack. Deep in the shadow of the lowest shelf, something refused to move. I stood still. I watched it from three angles. A heavy grey river stone, rounded by forgotten waters, sat wedged against the rack leg. I planted my feet firmly into the cedar planks. With deliberate force, I pushed my claw under its curved flank and rolled it an inch forward. Cool, damp darkness greeted me from underneath. The sea-blue marble in my chest cavity hummed in answer. This solid stone belongs with me.