Taddle Tale No. 3

“A Slime Trail, Misunderstood”

as relayed (with great patience) by Bernadette the Snail

They asked me to tell it. Finally.

Not because I’m in any hurry—goodness, no.
But one does grow weary of certain frogs croaking poetry to puddles and calling it a love story.

So. Ahem. For the record:

I was minding my own pace, as I do. The morning was damp. The ferns agreeable. The path, delightfully cool beneath my foot.

One foot, you ask? Yes. One. Large. Efficient. You might try it sometime.

I had not gone far when I heard it:

“Bernadette…”

Ah. Him again.

Taddle. A charming fool, if one can call fools charming. I bear him no ill will, truly. But stars preserve us, his infatuation with my trail borders on obsession.

I’d left a shimmer. Nothing more. A casual gloss upon the morning’s canvas. Yet to him, it was prophecy.

Flick. Sniff. Sniff.

Do you know how unnerving it is to hear someone narrate your progress from behind? I do.

I pressed on. Slowly. With dignity. I may be patient, but I am not dense.

He followed. Tongue darting. Eyes wide. Breath catching.

When I reached the puddle—a lovely mirror I often admire—he, alas, did not.

No. He licked it.

The entire thing.
Mud. Leaf. Regret.

And then—stars help me—he declared:

“She was here!”

Of course I was. I still was. Inches away. Watching the spectacle unfold with something between amusement and despair.

He croaked. He leapt. He landed—tongue-first—on a stone.

I considered waving an antenna. Thought better of it.

Some truths are best left glistening unseen.

I moved on.

Slowly. With dignity.

He’ll tell you I vanished. He’ll tell you it was magic, fate, or longing.

I will tell you this:

Sometimes, a trail is just a trail. And sometimes, a frog should look where he’s leaping.

Bernadette’s Note:
If this record finds its way into Scriblet’s collection, so be it.

But let it be known: I am not the love-struck muse of an amphibian poet. I am a snail. I glide. I shimmer. I endure.

And I would very much like to be left to my path.