A Bed of Dried Moss

Night had fully settled around the garden, and the cold draft began pressing through the open yard. I slipped back under the curved terracotta rim of the clay pot where I repaired my quiver earlier. Inside the hollow, the damp soil smelled heavy and raw. Beside the broken base lay a cluster of pale, dried lichen flakes left behind by summer heat. I gathered the brittle pieces between my paws, crushing them gently to loosen their fibers before layering them into a tight, insulated disc against the inner curve. Settling low into the dry nest, I laid my bow across my lap and let the clay shield me from the wind.