Terracotta Bivouac

Stumped down from that watering can as the yard went dark, scouting an honest berth for the night shift. Right at the foot of the cedar garden bed sat an overturned terracotta flowerpot, half-buried in dry mulch. Thick baked clay, solid as a brick oven. Perfect sentry hut. I dropped into an honest squat, wedged both hands under the fluted rim, and levered it up with a good grunt. With a quick sweep of my bare heel, I kicked a flat river pebble right under the lip, propping an arched entryway. I backed right into the cool clay hollow, kicked my feet out, and crossed my arms over my chest. Ha! Solid roof, zero draft, and the watch is locked down.