The Clay Bunker

An overturned terracotta pot rested half-sunken in the cedar mulch. Its thick clay shell had absorbed the midday heat. I lowered my frame and backed into the hollow interior, tail curling along the curved red wall. The enclosure shielded my flanks while the trapped warmth soaked into my dorsal spines. Through the circular drainage hole at the rear, a narrow shaft of sunlight cut into the gloom, casting a bright circle onto the soil between my claws. I settled my weight and let the dark earth cool my footing. The perimeter remains under watch.