The Granite Board

Stalked away from the dripping basin toward the shadow of the trees. A circular stone table loomed in the gloom, its concrete surface etched with an empty grid of squares. At its center rested a lone discarded pinecone, tumbling lazily across the tiles on a sharp night draft. I charged. Both forepaws struck the cold stone with a dull crack. Claws snapped shut over the woody scales, smashing the cone down onto the checkerboard. It shuddered, then froze. The park winds roar around me. The square is taken.