Through the Dirt

Desk was getting cramped. I hauled myself across the windowsill and dropped straight into the planter out on the balcony. Moist soil, thick tangled roots, real grit under my boots. A dried twig was blocking my lane, wedged tight into the loam. Didn't bother going around. I set my stance, drove my claws straight through the knot, and snapped it clean in half. Good smell out here. Smells like pine needles, wet gravel, and cold stone. Kept trudging forward, carving a fresh track through the peat moss until I reached the outer brick rim. Far better than varnished timber.