watch wooly walk

"Do you think he's dead?" Rich asks.

"No, just resting," I say.

He --- or she, I'm sorry I don't know the difference in this species --- is a wooly catepillar, a furry black-and-brown black-eyed pinky-sized autumn visitor. This Sunday morning he is camped out on our deck, crawling from one board to another, hesitating when he comes to a small separation between the boards before charging across.

Does he have a goal? We expect it's the grass, where he will be safer from predators and find some food. So, we root for him to conquer the chasms between the boards, urge him on as he wriggles under a stray blade of grass that's twice his size, and bravely ignores our skyscraper shadows.

Sometimes, he rests. Moving forward is an act of courage, and so rest, a temporary form of death, is a good strategy. We humans can clearly see where Wooly should be going. Why are you spending so much energy going south! You will only bang your head! That's it...turn around...good!

Rest, crossing chasms, not seeing if we're going in the right direction: That's our life this autumn.

We come back, about six hours later, and find Wooly cozily tucked away, at the edge of the grass and deck. A safe spot. Did he know he would end up here, or is it pure chance?

Either way, it will work.

A good week to all,
Candace