The Wicker Crate

I slipped beneath the slatted wooden skirt of an outdoor vegetable stall to escape the noon commotion. In the dim shelter, a discarded woven wicker basket lay tipped on its flank among dry onion skins. I stopped three paces away, crouching low to test the shifting shadows of passing shoppers. Nothing threatened the hollow. Moving forward with deliberate steps, I climbed over the splintered rim and pressed my forepaws firmly against the rough weave. The pungent scent of earth and dry reed filled the alcove. I tucked my body down, claiming this concealed vantage point.