The Slug and the Grasshopper

Kitchen air,
soap and heat,
sweetness that means the Human
has forgiven the kettle
for being a kettle.

A paving stone,
cold as a coin.

The Slug is halfway across it,
a soft parcel of insistence,
writing his sentence in silver.
He has no pen
and no one asked him.

The Cat steps out.
Not running, arriving.
A blade with whiskers.

The Grasshopper lands beside the Slug like punctuation with knees. “Morning, slime.” He says it kindly, the way kings say peasant. “I am going to be somewhere else,” he announces, as if distance were a rumour he could deny.

The yard tightens without moving.

“Danger,” says the Slug.

“Danger is a bedtime story,” the Grasshopper replies, “for creatures who cannot jump. Race you. To the hedge. First to reach shade wins the right to be insufferable.”

“I do not want that right,” says the Slug.

“You get it anyway,” says the Grasshopper,  “One, two.” He jumps on two.

The Slug begins. Not heroically. Not quickly. Just forward, as if forward is a virtue and not merely a direction with costs.

The Cat turns its head.

The Grasshopper hears it late, because he is busy bragging. “Oh,” he says, “that is the slayer.”

“Yes,” says the Slug, very calm for a creature made of wet.

The Grasshopper becomes green lightning, a sequence of clean mistakes. Pot rim. Birdbath lip. Grass, too bright in daylight, too open for philosophy. The Cat follows by solving. Claws into leaves, a pounce that misses by the width of luck, and the Grasshopper laughs, breathless, delighted to be noticed.

“Did you see that,” he shouts, as if the world is a theatre and death is a critic.

The back door opens. A rectangle of indoor light falls across the yard. “Winston,” the Human calls, “come in. Do not bring anything in. Last time you brought in half a snake and acted like I should clap.”

The Cat pauses. Duty tugs the murderer by the collar.

The Slug moves.

He finds the seam of shade
under the hedge,
cool earth,
damp that feels like pardon.

The Grasshopper arrives too, in a final flamboyant bounce, eyes wide, wings twitching with victory. “I made it,” he says. “I won.” The Cat, offended by schedules, pads back inside. The Human goes on believing the yard is his.

The Grasshopper climbs a small stone and turns his survival into a speech. “Let it be known I outpaced death itself.” The Slug watches him inflate into legend.

“If you insist,” says the Slug, “try making your speech under something heavy.”

“Why would I hide,” says the Grasshopper, “I am the winner.”

Above them
the hedge shifts.
Not leaf,
not branch.

A shadow detaches
from the morning sky
and becomes a bird.

It drops
like a thrown knife,
silent until the last instant
when the air tears
into a thin scream.

The Grasshopper turns.
His celebration
is cut mid syllable.

Impact,
wet crack,
red mist,
stippling the hedge leaves,
insultingly pretty.

His legs kick,
still performing,
still trying
to argue the outcome
with enthusiasm.

The beak punches down,
again,
again,
a clerk stamping forms.

His abdomen opens.
Something pale and glistening
spills out.

The bird eats first
the part that matters.

The Slug holds still
and does not negotiate.

The bird glances at him,
black button eye,
weighing effort
against reward.

Then it returns
to the warm work,
because winners
are more tender.

Tear,
wet cloth sound,
a short dragging up
into leaves.

Green fragments fall
like confetti
from the wrong party.

In the open yard
the Human makes coffee
and thinks of nothing.

Inside, the Cat curls
innocent as a pillow.

Above, the bird wipes its beak
on a branch
leaving a smear of red
like a signature.

The Slug travels deeper
into shade,
writing his quiet line,
no brag,
no leap,
no speech.

Only the slow,
shining proof
of continuing.

F.S.F.