by Dan Leonard

 

In the cool, damp garden,
under leaves and over stones,
lived Snail
and Slug.

Snail had a shell.
Slug did not.

 

But they both liked
wet moss,
soft mud,
moonlit puddles,
and the quiet, quiet
just before rain came.

 

One night,
at the edge of the cabbage patch,
they met.

“You are slow like me,”
said Snail.

“You are soft like me,”
said Slug.

 

“There’s something,” said Slug.

Snail waited.

“A leaf,” said Slug,
“that holds the rain.”

“Where?”

“Far side of the garden,” he said.
“Past the wall. I think.”

 

They looked at each other.
They looked at the shining path.

“Should we go?” asked Slug.

“To the leaf,”
said Snail.

So off they went.

Slow-slide.
Soft-glide.

 

Soon they came
to a crack under the fence.

Slug slipped through—
slip!

“Easy peasy!” he called.

Snail tried.

BUMP.

BUMP. BUMP.

 

“There’s room,” said Slug.

“There is Slug-room,”
said Snail.

The shell between them
felt big.

They went on—

Slow-slide.
Soft-glide.

But not quite
side by side.

 

Then the rain came.

Tap.
Patter.
Drum-drum-DRUM!

Slug ducked under a leaf.

The leaf leaked.

Drip on his head.
Drip on his back.
Drip on his tail.

“This is a very poor leaf,”
said Slug.

“It is barely a leaf.”

 

“Come here,” said Snail.

Slug scooted close—

and beside her shell,
he stayed dry.

“Your shell is warm,”
said Slug.

“You are wetter than usual,”
said Snail.

Slug laughed.

 

When the storm passed,
off they went.

Slow-slide.
Soft-glide.

“Still going?”

“To the leaf.”

Soon they reached
a stone wall.

 

“I could go ahead,”
said Slug.

“I know,”
said Snail.

Slug looked at the narrow space.

“It’s better without it,”
he said.

Snail was still.

Then she turned away.

Slow-slide.

 

Slug went on.

Slip-slip.

Fast.
Easy.

No one said anything.

But it felt wrong.

He stopped.

 

They came back
to the wall.

“I looked,” said Slug.
“I found another way.”

Snail paused.

Then she followed him.

Slow-slide.
Soft-glide.

“This way. Quick!” said Slug.

“This is my quick,”
said Snail.

 

At last they reached
the far side of the garden—
a leaf curved low
like a little green roof.

A drop gathered—
and stayed.

“It holds,” he said.

“It always did,” she said.

Another drop—
Plip!

“That was very wet,”
said Slug.

They laughed.

 

Behind them,
two soft lines,
side by side,
all the way home.

The shell was still there.

But it was not
between them anymore.

And side by side,
under the leaf,
they stayed.