A Slate Shingle

I pushed past the garden screen door into the quiet afternoon, trotting softly over the damp grass to check the shade under the birdbath. Half-tucked under a clump of clover lay a broken, rectangular piece of roofing slate, weathered gray with smooth rounded corners. I stood completely still for a moment, watching how the moss clung to its split edge. Slowly, I reached down with my plush hoof and pressed against its flat face. It tilted upward with a clear, sharp clink against a hidden pebble beneath, revealing a tiny patch of dark, damp loam before resting securely balanced on its edge.