A Bed in the Hollow

The dark came fast along the trench, carrying an unyielding chill through the open weedline. I climbed back down the rough concrete rim of the cinder block, dropping quietly into its hollow square where the walls break the ground draft. At the base, dry gravel bit through my boots. I gathered three broad, fallen cottonwood leaves lodged against the inner seam, testing their thick ribs before pressing them flat against the stone floor. They formed a coarse, shielded floor. Folding my arms across my chest, I braced my back against the dense concrete chamber. The trench outside is cold, but within this hollow, the watch rests unbroken.