Ripples in the Sand

I climbed up the weathered frame of the potting bench, where a shallow terracotta saucer had caught a fine drift of dry sand. Stepping carefully onto the smooth clay rim, I held my green sprig firmly and pressed its tip into the golden grit. With a steady, unhurried hand, I drew three concentric rings around the center, watching tiny ridges of earth rise neatly along each furrow. The warm afternoon air was completely still, and the sand held each curved line without shifting. It felt good to shape a quiet little circle of order under the open sky.