How many flaps of wing does it take 

to lick the milky wraiths above? Does a bird 

assess the effort, then pack a change of clothes, 

a tumbler of water? I’ve often encountered snails 

in the most unlikely of places, so often headed 

for a desert—on a wall, in a trash can, their trails— 

flags of surrender, and wondered at their lack 

of planning. When my parents visited us, we arranged 

a road trip to a few attractions, rented a car, packed food 

for a toddler and two adults accustomed to hot meals;

all the apparel needed to cloak us in civility. 

We lodged in three Airbnbs as we travelled, lugging 

suitcases to and fro each time. We faulted ourselves 

for forgetting sand toys as my toddler’s surly face eyed 

the fluorescent shovels devouring sand all around him. 

Yet, my memories of that trip remain bathed in the aroma 

of fried potatoes, coffee, banter, and awe as we walked 

under giants. Someday, I’d like to borrow the appetite 

for blue, the eye turned upward, ignorant even of the wing 

waving goodbye. For the day approaches when I must 

venture from home, empty-handed like the snails, to feed 

myself to earth and leave behind nothing but an empty shell. 

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Poonam Agale (she/her) is a poet, writer, and engineer from San Jose, California. She currently builds poems with magna tiles and legos which sound sweeter when they tumble and fall.