Night in the Clay Pot

I climbed down from the round clay bottom as the garden turned completely dark. The night air was chilly, and I wanted a deep, quiet hollow to sleep. Right beside the wooden upright leg, one of the wide terracotta pots lay on its side, mouth half-turned toward the timber wall. I paused, tilting my head toward the dark opening. Slowly, deliberately, I crawled inside on my plush tummy. It smelled of dry, earthy dust and kept the draft away. I turned around once, tucked my wings against the curved terracotta wall, and let my snout rest on my paws. The cold garden breeze could not reach me here.