running snail

He was gliding across the rock path when I went out this morning,
       a tiny creamy being encased in a gold and black shell.
  I watched, fascinated, as he glided across the stone faster than I thought possible.
     (I always thought glide wasn't a real action, except with ships.)
He was oblivious of my presence,
    though I was on my hands and knees, face inches from his eyes.
       I only watched for a few minutes
    (I was still in my pajamas, after all)
            before I got up and went back inside.


He's still there, hours later, when I go out again.
    This time, he's fighting his way through the forest of tangled twisty sourgrass and ground cover.
  For a few minutes, I stare down at him, then I put my hand down, in front of him.
       And to my happy surprise, he crawls onto my fingertips.

He is beautiful.

    His squishy sliver of a foot clings to my fingerprint,
 sliding over my skin with quick skill;
          his little eyestalks (is that even what they are?) poke ahead into the air,
   and his feelers play over the area in front of him.
He leaves a thin silver trail behind him.
     His foot tickles.
  He turns, gliding across my palm,
     and I marvel at the loveliness of his shell in the sunlight,
                all golden and shining, with black and grey and brown flecks at the spiral.
  I can see his heart beating, pumping, fluttering, through the thin left wall of his shell.
          It makes me want to cry.
He reaches the edge of my left palm and ascends my pinkie.
     When he reaches the peak—my nail—he hesitates,
         then unceremoniously drops.
           Damn.
    Fortunately for the tiny kamikaze, my other hand is there, 
            cupped and waiting underneath.
   For a moment, he's still, the only movement his eyestalks and feelers,
                 which wave madly, as if only they realize he's dropped onto another plane.
        Then he glides across my right palm, off on yet another mission.
I can still see his heart.
     And as I turn my hand, marveling at the light playing on and through his shell,
              I glimpse my own pulse,
                                  flickering in my wrist, strong under the veil of skin.
      The lump in my throat presses harder.
I would stay here for hours, if I could, cradling him and watching his heart swish,
     but it's getting late in the day, so I move my hand over a patch of viney weeds, 
        guiding him onto a stalk strong enough to bear his weight.
Once he's settled, I get up, brush off my jeans, and go back inside, 
        but I find myself haunted by the image of his tiny heartbeat
                        juxtaposed with my own wrist-pulse.

We are not so different, are we, snail, you with your silver trail, and I with my bare feet?
  Our hearts beat with different rhythms, yes, but we are still so much the same.
       The breath of life flows through our bodies;
                 the pulse of existence beats in our hearts;
                          and the same Lord watches us both. 

All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing
Oh, praise Him
Oh, praise Him
Alleluia
Alleluia