snail

Like the starfish 

thrown back to sea,

we pick up snails

one by one, 

and place them in the grass. 

Setting out to slime, 

suddenly they fly, 

airborne beneath fingers like claws 

grasping their shells. 

They curl up underneath,

as soon as they are set down. 

Are they thanking their stars

that the 'birds' that caught them 

were too stupid to eat them? 

Where are they headed, 

these sluggish beasts, 

carrying their worldly possessions 

on their backs

narrowly missing that tyre, 

this squeaky shoe, that pointed heel? 

Do they know what there is on the other side? 

Or does their journey matter more than the destination, 

and if so, have we helped or hurt them by moving them out of the path? 

Like 3D question marks,

they move. 

Their homes look so sturdy, 

yet with one step of our boot

they crack 

their bodies reduced to lifeless slime

mixed in with bits of shell. 

Do we too appear so fragile 

to those great gods above us 

who perhaps spill a cup of tea

and wash our homes away, 

or step somewhat heavily 

and crack the ground we tread on, shaking our houses and schools? 

Who knows? 

Let's pick up the snails 

and put them away 

when we can  

to avoid this 

we pick them up and put them away 

and are afraid 

have we helped or hurt? 

hinking that perhaps they narrowly escaped with their lives from a big bird too stupid to eat them after having caught them? 

we were perhaps some stupid bird

to save them

from being trampled

under foot or wheel.