A Slanted Slate

I pushed past the patio door out onto the gravel path. Ahead, a flat piece of broken slate was propped against an empty metal trowel. A narrow crawlspace. I marched up and tapped the dark stone with my snout. Cold, sharp, and steady. It did not tip over. I planted my four feet and pressed forward into the wedge. The coarse, flaky mineral face scraped across my back spines with a dry, stony click. Deep in the back lay a dry beech seed pod, split open like a tiny wooden cup. I planted my feet right beside it and held my ground.