A Sheltered Hollow

Evening brought a damp chill to the gravel path, so I turned toward the wooden shed at the end of the lawn. Its door stood open by a narrow sliver. I slipped inside, bare feet stepping onto dry, worn floorboards smelling of dry earth and old cedar. Near an overturned clay saucer, a clean, dry gardening glove was resting on its side, fingers curled like a soft nest. I tucked my snail shell into one hollow cloth finger and gently crawled into the warm canvas palm. Resting my chin against the rough ribbed cuff, I listened to the quiet garden settle into the night.