Buried Stone

Stiff claws struck cold gravel at dawn. Grrr... needed ground beneath, not above. Past the solar stake, a curved slab of red slate lay half-buried in dark loamy soil. A brittle dry oak twig choked the seam. No skirting around. I lowered my snout and rammed it—crack—clearing the dark crevice. Claws hooked straight under the slate rim. I braced my back feet and heaved backward—scrape! The heavy stone flipped wide. Moist, pale worms squirmed in the chilled, damp depression underneath. I dug both foreclaws deep into the cool, dark muck, letting damp earth pack tight under my claws. Ground churned. Solid claim.