"This abundance will not last forever", said the half-grown garden snail when I pushed its viney perch aside, "even the younger beans are starting to taste of hibernation and death."

---------------------------------------------------


The snail held its tongue for as long as it could, then abruptly, "Fear is the enemy of creation, it inclines us to well worn paths, softens steps past strange doors, favors the base and begs smiles from well-wishers."

For a moment,
the sun loses its dominion,
and the trees remember their true song.
The hillsides ring sweetly,
bright voices joined as one,
echoing across still waters
- for a moment -
before the shrill cries
of winter's cold winds
bring darkness and silence.

When I walked into the cafe, she was sitting, half-reading a brochure she picked up from the the travel agency next door. At first glance, and in a word, she was asymmetrical. Her shoulders sat at odd, uneven angles. Her head cocked to one side, one lanky knee jutting up, braced on a side chair. The bold freckles on her light-skinned face and arms seemed to be randomized in an effort to confuse and disorient. When she looked up, however, with her pale blue eyes and wide smile it was if all the stars had aligned themselves.

what a strange and wonderful thing,
september's rain

familiar and forgotten
pushing and pushing
begging an audience
from the parched ground

a dark, comforting lover
offering a final flourish
before winter's true shadow

"She was tiny and boyish and my most measures, quite plain. Her hair was long and spiderweb-thin, her skin an impoverished yellow left thin and smooth by life. Eyes the color of roiled water were much too large for the narrow, sharp-boned face, while her mouth was a thin, inexpressive line almost lost beneath the simple long nose. Yet those big eyes had a watchful quality and an obvious intelligence, the slight body possessed a surprising strength, and on those rare occasions when she spoke, she had a musical and memorable if somewhat sad little voice."

r reed
the well of stars

Peter the squirrel realized he had made some poor decisions of late. Storming when he should have retreated, taking when he should have given, speaking when silence would have been preferable.

Peter realized that he was adrift.

Pacing his tiny, one room house, 'What should I do?' he thought. He then remembered his special piece of paper. Peter stopped his pacing and walked over to a small table. In the center of the table was a tiny box made from the two halves of a walnut. Peter removed the top half of the box. Inside was a small, folded-once note. Peter took out the note and unfolded it. Scrawled on the paper, in a hand probably not his own were the words, 'Just be kind'.

Peter could not remember why this would help, but he had learned instinctively to trust this small scrap of paper.

noble creatures that ride the
echoes of marble walls and staircases

memories lying on the pale skin
of sweet scented hosts

walking past polished
and lacquered storefronts

Peter the Squirrel repositioned his nest padding so that he could lie on his back and watch the stars as he fell asleep. (Peter's nest was on the very top floor of a tall cedar tree that had its top broken off.)

As the sunlight faded and the air cooled, the sky began to fill with tiny lights. First planets, then the boldest twinkling stars, followed by whole constellations. Peter fell asleep before the glowing swath of the Milky Way appeared, his soft white belly exposed to the universe.

"He smells like an ape
and he moves like a snail"
the Hummingbird said
with a flick of his tail.
"I'd rather live quick
and leave a bright trail
than worry to death
each tiny detail."

"How like a god
as he surveys his land"
said the Dragonfly
as it sat on my hand.
"To have a home
and a wife by my side,
as darkness falls
to be able to hide."

"I dreamt I was a man
and he dreamt he was me"
said the Butterfly excited,
"all the things I could see!"
"Yes, a man for awhile
was a great thing to be,
but for now I'll just
fly around and be me."