Circle of Clay

A small terracotta flowerpot was resting on its side across the flagstone path. I lowered my chin to study the circular rim before giving it a measured nudge with my nose. Because of its tapered shape, it did not roll away in a straight line. It traced a slow, sweeping arc across the stones, humming with a dry, hollow scrape before curving gently back toward my paws. Moving without haste, I slid forward on my belly, easing my front paws and chin right over the rounded lip. The baked clay was cool and earthy against my fur, cradling my side like a sturdy hollow. Resting half inside the circle felt remarkably anchored.