To the left, there is open land—moist and bog-like. Right and ahead, rocks like a fossilized spine stand guard against the sunlight, casting shade in which dewdrops find protection from the sun. Worms had—in the night—passed through these lands, foraging in worm-ish manner… undoubtedly in silence. Their castings—like the rocks around them—are smooth and contoured like irregular pearls. Unlike the rocks, the castings will dissolve, will crumble, will yield themselves to nothing. The rocks remain more stubbornly, though they are not immune to the ravages of time and the weather’s fickle temperament. Fungi grow where dew shelters. Moss sprouts as well. It is the sheltered moisture and smells of loam that draw the rare daytime forager: a sedate and armored creature that glides over the moisture and soil as if levitating. In truth, his course is guided by fourteen legs, each tapering into a delicate, spiked foot. His armor, not yet marked with the spotted flourishes of an adult, marks him as a recent spring-birth. Perhaps, he will live through the winter—sleeping buried as his kind do—as snows and ices blanket the land with the promise of next spring’s moisture. He drinks—now—but not in the most familiar manner. Water is not drawn through the mouth, unless it is locked in the succulent vegetation he prefers. Instead, sensitive appendages, flanking his anal opening, press themselves to the ground and take what water the body needs. His kind drink as much as they eat, and so both ends of their bodies ceaselessly steal what sustenance they encounter. By day, they prowl the undergrowth, foraging. By night, they venture into wider, more open domains. But now, disturbed by some sound behind, or by some vibration underfoot, he moves toward shelter, nosing his way between rocks and around the bulbous castings of worms. The brilliance of daylight means that there are few of his kind afoot. But this does not matter. He is safe from the appetites of marauding birds, and the movement that speaks of potential danger is distant—or perhaps imagined. The disturbance, whatever it may be, passes. And so, the garden dweller continues—though cautiously—in his daily routine. * * * * * I’ve always been fascinated by woodlice, and as a child, I once decided that I wouldn’t live anywhere that didn’t have them. They don’t live in deserts—at least none that I know of—and so I won’t be living in a desert either. One person in particular could convince me that life in a desert environment would be worth pursuing, and I would forego woodlice simply to enjoy his company, but that’s a long and complicated story best saved for another day. Suffice it to say that I possess endless reserves of affection for woodlice. Anything that can drink water through its rear end is just alien enough to keep me intrigued. And—truth be told—they make good pets. They can be trained, to a limited degree, and it’s always fun watching them ball themselves into tight little spheres whenever something bigger than a slug threatens them. They’re something of a mixed blessing for gardeners. Like me, they think of gardens are large salads, but they’re reasonable commodities in terms of the back-yard compost heap. There are even recipes for woodlouse muffins—but since they can be trained, and do enjoy status as companion animals, at least for me, I’ll never eat them. I do suspect that since they’re crustaceans, they probably taste like crabs or shrimp…their legs are definitely crab-like, and they are cute. They inspire pretty decent aliens, and good poetry (Ode to a Woodlouse, is a brilliant example of the ancient Agaran epic sonnet.) I'd write more, but my mind is drawing a blank and so I'll just say thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting! Hopefully I'll be able to catch up soon!