The Snail and the Evening Rain
The little snail lived on a wide green leaf, and the rain was coming down, soft and slow.
Tap, tap, went the rain on the leaf. The little snail was warm inside her shell.
The leaf was green.
The rain was soft.
The snail was home.
Out she came, just a little, to feel the cool air on her small gray body. The garden smelled like wet earth and sleeping flowers.
A fat drop rolled down the leaf toward her, round and shining like a tiny moon.
"Hello, little rain," said the snail. "You may sit beside me."
And the raindrop sat, round and shining, right beside the snail.
Tap, tap, went the rain on the leaf. The little snail was warm inside her shell.
Slowly, slowly, she moved along the leaf, leaving a shimmery silver trail behind her. Slow is how a snail goes. Slow is how the evening goes, too.
A firefly blinked past, gold and quiet, and settled on a bending blade of grass.
"Goodnight, little snail," blinked the firefly, soft and slow.
"Goodnight, little light," said the snail.
The garden was dark.
The rain grew soft.
Everything was still.
The snail curled back toward her shell, cozy and round. The rain slowed to a whisper now, tap... tap... and then only a hush.
The leaf was green. The rain was gentle. The snail was home.
She tucked herself in, all the way in, where it was dry and dark and safe. Outside, the garden breathed its wet and sleepy breath, and one last raindrop rested on the leaf beside her, round and shining, keeping her company in the dark.
Tap, went the rain, one last soft tap. And the little snail was warm inside her shell.