<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div dir="ltr">The Song Of The Snail<div><br></div><div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">Once upon a time actually in mushroom time, there was a snail</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">who was a poet and roamed through roots, leaves, and flowers,</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">whispering poetic verse, in the Very Best Oral Tradition, for poems</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">are meant to be read out loud. Others of her kind thought this </div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">behavior a foolish errand. I mean, they said. who cares about the</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">poetic musings of a snail. Sentimental Hogwash! but the lilies cared</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">and the cyclamen, the narcissus and the roses; and later in summer the berries, peaches, apples and persimmons. The deer often leaned down</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">to listen, as did the rabbit, the fox, and even the grumpy bear.</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">The Amanita Muscaria offered to host the snail and her poetry on the </div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">Full moon in early Spring. Perfect, said the snail a little shyly, for</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">it was such a great honor. Thus, on a resplendent night, with an</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">audience above of glittering stars while below at snail level, the Forest dwellers knew magic was to happen and all agreed to have a collective hush and to listen respectfully and deeply.</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">I remember that evening. My friend and I lay down in the soft cool grass </div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">near the mushroom where the snail was reciting on the ruby red pedestal.</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">We were so young that we understood every word of the poems that the snail spoke in her tiny snail voice.</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">It was a blessing, for after that night and in </div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">every poem I have read since, I hear the song of the snail, and it is a good song. Sometimes also the voice of the Oak Tree</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">the stream, the stones of the water ways, even the voices of the old gods of the woods. We called out our ‘thank you’ to the snail poet and to the Full Moon but the snail had already moved to her secret place taking her poems with her.</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;"><br class=""></div></div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Gail Onion</div><div class="" style="margin: 0px; font-stretch: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; min-height: 16px;"><br></div></div></body></html>