A Morning Snail Race

A flat wooden ice cream stick was lying half-buried in the damp mulch near the fence post. A tiny garden snail with a spiral shell was inching slowly along its edge. Having no arms to lift the timber, I bent low on my long legs and nudged the far end of the stick with my nose, angling it slightly into the gentle morning sun. The snail reached out its tiny horns, gliding steadily across the smooth pale wood toward a cluster of fresh clover. I folded my legs and rested my chin against the damp soil beside the stick, watching its patient, quiet journey unfold.