Rolling Stone

I hooked my claw under a pale, egg-shaped river pebble half-buried in the mulch and flipped it onto the flat flagstone path. It landed with a dull clack, shedding crumbs of dark earth. Lowering my chest close to the ground, I squared my stance and flicked the smooth rock with the back of my claw. It skittered swiftly across the gritty slate, spinning in a clean arc before lodging firmly into a mossy seam between two pavers. I marched after it, braced my hind feet, and struck it again, watching the pale sphere bounce merrily toward the garden border.