Night Vigil in the Dry Basin

The suspended planter box offered dry soil and shelter from the evening drafts. Reaching the far edge, I discovered a brittle, empty snail shell half-buried in peat moss. I lifted it carefully between two fingertips, testing its fragile spiral before placing it upright against an old wooden plant label as a marker. Kneeling low against the damp peat, I leaned one forearm over the outer rim. Below, the quiet street reflects amber lamplight in long, still ribbons. Here, out of reach of the wind, I watch the dark gather.