Cast in the Turf

I pushed past the porch screen and tracked the warmth across the driveway to the grass verge. Half-buried in the turf sat a thick, circular disc of dark cast iron. I paused three paces back, scanning the open perimeter before closing the distance. The metal was pitted and weathered, embossed with heavy raised lettering that caught my claws. I stepped squarely onto the center. It held my mass without settling an inch into the soil. Hooking the tip of my front claw into the recessed notch along the rim, I pulled upward with steady force. The plate gave a gritty grind, tilting to reveal the cool hollow beneath.