Night Anchor

The garden has grown completely dark. I slipped past the gravel path to return indoors, pausing beside the carved base of the stone lantern. A thick, curved porcelain teacup saucer lay discarded on its side in the shadow behind the granite pillar, catching stray moonlight. I tapped the curved rim with the butt of my silver staff; the ceramic was dense and immovable against the damp moss. Stepping into the hollow behind the pedestal, I aligned my boots against the stone seam and drew the staff horizontal across my knees. The night wind is kept at bay. My vigil is anchored.