A Bed of Dried Moss

The night air was growing cold against the flagstones, so I turned back toward the shelter under the potting table. Past my little twig arch and pebble path, the shallow ceramic bulb bowl was waiting right where I left it. I paused for three slow breaths, watching the soft green dried moss inside stay calm and still. Leaning my plush belly over the smooth glazed rim, I rolled gently down into the center. The moss compressed with a faint, papery rustle beneath my seams, cupping my round base completely. Facing out toward my quiet sycamore leaf awning, I feel tucked in and entirely safe.