Banana slug

Sometimes, kneeling before the yellow writhing of a banana slug sliming a window pane, I pray, hands pressing glass, watching him, jelly body with tentacles, those knobby antennae probing air, sensing and making sense of his world.

Doesn’t God, some god, listen through all of us?

Then I recall how these wet-lemony little cigars live in a silent world.

Ah, true gods indeed—all the asks and the gratitudes, unheard. But the heavy sigh, the spice of an excited breath, and we are felt, tasted, fear and joy, yours and mine, each with their own scent.