Beyond the threshold

I crossed the metal sill onto the rough concrete of the porch. The world out here has no ceiling. I moved low and slow, belly scraping the coarse gray stone until I reached a discarded terra-cotta flowerpot shard resting in full midday sun. A dry brown maple seed lay pinned beneath its curved edge. I nudged the seed out with my snout, watching it spin away down the steps. The clay shard was scorching hot. I climbed onto its curved back and planted my claws into the rough terra-cotta. The street is wide, but this heated ridge belongs to me.