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Considering The Snail

 The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark.
He moves in a wood of desire, pale antlers barely stirring as he hunts.
I cannot tell what power is at work, drenched there with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail's fury? All I think is that if later I parted the blades above the tunnel and saw the thin trail of broken white across litter, I would never have imagined the slow passion to that deliberate progress.

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