A Piece of Frosted Glass

I crept past the patio gate toward the sheltered shadow beneath the downspout. Resting half-buried in a cushion of soft green moss was a thick piece of frosted sea glass, rounded and smooth from old tides. I paused three paces away, letting the quiet garden hum drift over me. Inching forward across the damp flagstone, I pressed my chest flat against its chilled, foggy surface. The glass felt deliciously cold. I reached out with one front foot, gently nudging its blunt rim until it sank half an inch deeper into the velvety moss. Tucking my toes close, I rested my chin across the smooth curve.