The Snail and the Silver Path
The rain had gone soft. Just a little rain now, tapping the leaves. Tap, tap. Soft and slow.
Under a wide green leaf, a small snail woke up. Her shell was round and brown, curled like a tiny sleeping seashell. She stretched out, slow and shiny, into the cool morning.
The garden was quiet.
The garden was wet.
Everything glistened.
"I think I'll go and see," the little snail said to herself.
So she went, slow and slow. And behind her, on the stone, she left a shimmer. A silver path, soft and slow.
She passed a dewdrop hanging on a blade of grass. It held a tiny round world inside it, all curved and bright. The little snail looked, and looked, and the dewdrop looked back.
The grass bowed low.
A drop let go.
Plip.
On she went, slow and slow, past a mushroom with a wide brown cap. Underneath it was dry and still, like a little house with the light left on. A beetle sat there, polishing his shiny back.
"Where are you going?" asked the beetle. "Just to see," said the snail. "Just to see, slow and slow."
The sun came out from behind a cloud. The whole garden began to shine. Every leaf, every web, every wet little stone.
Warm on her shell.
Warm on the ground.
The garden glowed.
And her silver path glowed too, all the way back to the leaf where she started. A long, curling ribbon of light across the stones. She had made that. Slow and slow.
The little snail turned and looked at her path. It shimmered, soft and gold in the sun.
She was tired now.
The leaf was near.
The garden hummed.
Back she went, slow and slow, to the wide green leaf. It was cool there, and dim, and it smelled of rain. She curled inside her round brown shell, snug and small.
The rain had gone. Just a little sun now, warm on the leaf. And her silver path, soft and slow, waiting in the light.