Thin silver lines

They came with the rains that followed the dry,

appearing amongst the beets and backs of lettuce,

so still they could’ve been mistaken for balls of clay.

Running her hands through the spinach she found more,

their shells locked together, copulating. Filthy things, they

could stay like this for hours before disentangling—

populating the chicory then colonising another patch

of green. In places their shells were deep purple, the colour

of dried blood, or a carpenter’s damaged fingernail.

She wondered what to do with them. An old ice-cream bucket

doubled as a temporary home. They made a thud at first:

the sound of a nut or bean hitting plastic. Then softer,

muffled as they grew in numbers—the sound of shell cracking

against shell isn’t loud. She watched them crawl up

the sides of the bucket. With her fingers she flicked them back.

Others clutched together and copulated, in denial over

their situation. She considered keeping them in a jar,

depriving them of air until they foamed. Or digging them a grave,

lining it with leaves like an ancient tomb, folding them back

into the earth. In the end she settled on her hens. They raised their heads

as she approached, crowding before her feet when they saw the bucket.

Suddenly a flash of brown and purple; then all that remained

was the crushed fragments of shell; thin silver lines

snaking up the bucket.