Rain just past, we study the slugs gliding across the patio and decide they must be green-soled slugs. A coal tit lands on the empty feeder.
Recently turned soil at the back of the garden looks shrink-wrapped as the hot sun glistens on a hundred slug and snail trails.
The rain is past, but slugs still roam the yard in packs like slow-moving wolves. More cream-colored roses have opened. It’s quiet.
Seven starlings fly warbling out of the ash tree. I nudge a long slug with my toe to watch it shrink and retract into an invisible shell.
Drizzle, and from the woods, the steady dripping that makes it sound as if the real rain is there, on the far side of the yard. Slug trail.