Night Guard on the High Ground

I pressed my snout against the cold edge of the red slate dais. Night has fallen over the trench, and the outdoor breeze pushes through the tall grass stalks. My son did not wobble on his stone platform. The blue straw armor stayed locked across the pale spiral curve. Below the ledge, specimen one held the left flank with its battery brain, the big one guarded the center with black clip jaws clamped tight, and the big brain kept its wire antenna still. I scooped a rim of damp soil around the slate base with my foot. Then I curled my heavy body tight against the stone and rested my chin beside the shell. We hold the high ground until dawn.