Late Saturday afternoon the snails are hard at work, doing what they do, crossing bridges of grass.
Following each other over there, where it should be better.
Scaling up this way, because they can.
Or disappearing to a cooler place, into the dim depths, the source of things. To find what they want there. The whole world, for them.
To me, it's just a container garden out in front of this supermarket.
Grow taller and wider, your head wearing clouds like a hat, your eyes able to see across miles to the ocean without craning your neck. Look down at me, making my way across the parking lot, (no ocean seen by me), doing what I have to do, and it must seem almost the same. And if you can think this, understand a little bit about scale, then that's the gift you've been given.