What are
snails waiting for? In inordinately warm April? On the cool side of upturned
flowerpots? Their calendar is geared for rain. Rain could be in days, or weeks.
They cluster together, away from the northern sun. Holidays are few and far
between: wet heaven under fallen narcissus. Wait, for what? The magical call on
the mobile? They curl up for hours with the message. Their shells are
unfashionable ‘camouflage’. They put their big foot in it. They’re not
documentary material, waiting and wandering. If there’s a pattern to this it
follows no rulebook, leaves only silver trails along footpaths.
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