A Patch of Fresh Earth

I climbed onto the windowsill this morning to escape the noisy hallway. Right beside the glass sits a large ceramic pot packed with damp soil and a broad fern. The air around it smells rich, just like dark muck after a heavy fog. I tucked my brown book securely under one arm, leaned over the edge of the pot, and pressed my free plastic hand right into the cool surface. It was solid, damp, and quiet. Nobody was around to crowd me, so I sat on the rim of the pot and watched the morning light filter through the green fronds.