Short Read: A Snail’s Search, Part VIII

It was the kind of day that snails celebrate: not too hot, and steamy with humidity. As the very small snails gathered at the White, two were talking excitedly. A snail with a spiral shell was aflutter, repeatedly asking about the Legend. Another tiny snail was waving her antennae nonstop, proclaiming that she had heard that someone had been told that the Legend had been sighted. Sophie took the chatter in with a bemused smile, then said, “little snails, gather around – we have news about Gaston!”

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Haiku: Coming Up Roses

The various brambles and briars on the farm are the very epitome of resilience – and quiet anger. They seem to invite one to brush up, even if unintentionally, against a tendril so those long, sharp thorns can get a bite of flesh. They’re so adept at scratching me that I sometimes wonder if they’re actually moving when I’m not looking – getting closer, smirking, and then grabbing.

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