Where the path cuts left, a black caterpillar was on the ground – on the move. It looked wooly and prickly and propelled itself with speed.
I picked up a dry leaf, and when the caterpillar climbed aboard, I carried the leaf to the safety of the grass and set it down at the base of a tree.
A man had stopped to watch me. When I straightened with a satisfied expression, the man was there, ready to pop my balloon. He pointed and said, They’re everywhere – but what he meant was, What’s the use?
And I saw that, ahead, caterpillars charged the path in mass, away from the trees, toward the busy road, all hellbent, it seemed, on the same obscure destination.
Who was I to tell them otherwise?
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