Hollow Clay

A broad terracotta pot lay tipped on its side among the ferns. Empty. Interior dark and shielded from the midday glare. I halted at the rim. Planted all four feet. Lowered my crest and eased forward into the curved opening. The baked clay grazed my top ridges with rough resistance. No wobble. Inside, the garden hum dulled to a low murmur. Cool earth below, heavy dome above. I drew my tail flush against the inner curve and settled my weight down. A solid bunker.