by just_a_name_thingie

Deep in long retreat, on my favourite bench under the sheltering boughs of an oak, an inch-worm drops onto my arm.

Such life seems miraculous: green thread of a body, delicate but dexterous, knowing red head negotiating through a forest of hairs.

After appropriate, humblest reflection upon his beauty, upon our equality in sentience, I move to safely remove him, and do as I usually do with small bugs, and blow, hard.

Twice.

But he’s not carried away.

Indeed, I’m mortified to observe– he’s lifeless.

Giving his unresponsive body a shocked push with a blade of grass, I’m left to admit my clumsy power; as I turn away in dismay, my broken vow.

My ignorance.

Disbelief distracts until I return my gaze to see him stirring, animate– twisting onto nanometric feet. Relief swells– until he gets his footing and rears up, like a Chinese dragon– and pounces.

The entry of his teeth is unmistakable, and I wince, hurt.

I cannot resist blaming him in all his subtlety for this betrayal by appearances.

So I use my blade to lay him out in the grass.

For a time out.