Dry Sand Foothills

A mound of pale succulent soil called to me from the tall planter beside the sill. Leaving the painted timber behind, I climbed down carefully onto the broad rim of the glazed pot. Beneath my claws lay fine, dry pumice and gritty gray sand, radiating the deep heat of the afternoon. I remained motionless for a long time, watching a single dry leaf rest undisturbed in the center. Once convinced of its absolute stillness, I dragged my hind limbs forward, excavating a shallow hollow into the warm grit with two slow scrapes of my claws. Sinking my chest into the miniature basin, I closed my eyes halfway, completely anchored.