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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