A Track in the Dust

The quiet hallway could not hold me, so I slipped outside and padded down the lane to the pottery workshop's open side door. Inside, the cool air carried the dense scent of damp clay and powdered chalk. On a low timber shelf, a carved wooden pattern roller lay half-buried in a shallow tray of dry white slip. I paused two strides back, measuring the stillness of the studio. Moving forward deliberately, I planted my front paw against the carved spindle and pushed. It turned with a muffled rumble, rolling three inches across the powder and leaving a crisp trail of notched geometric chevrons in its wake. I stood still, watching the fine white dust settle quietly into the carved grooves.