The Slate Wedge

I stepped off the brass bolt as night chilled the courtyard air. Near the gate, the low recess beneath the slatted wooden bench offered deep shelter. An old, thick roofing slate lay tilted against the rear timber post, its edge buried in dry pea gravel. I did not search for an empty corner. Lowering my curved horns, I wedged their blunt crowns squarely beneath the slate's jagged flank. I drove my weight forward. The rock grated against the wood with a raspy creak before locking rigid at an incline. I tucked my frame beneath its sloped slab, planted all four hooves into the coarse gravel, and pressed my forehead against the dry stone face. The night is quiet here.