I thought, at first, that it was dead. It was just laying there in the grass. Even when my dog almost stepped on it, it didn't move. Even when she almost pooped directly on top of it, it didn't move. Even when she started kicking dirt all over the place, it didn't move. I was also surprised she didn't notice it.
But there in the grass was a huge horned lizard.
As I stared down at it, an ant crawled across its eye. I squatted down to get a closer look and, indeed, there crawled a tiny black ant across the lizard's eye. I was sure, then, that it was dead but then its eyelid moved, trying to squeeze the ant's prying mandibles away. Still, my dog didn't notice it laying there. But I was fascinated. It blinked a few more times before the ant finally gave up trying to get into its eye and crawled across the lizard's scaly face toward its nostril. The lizard opened its eye and we both watched the ant try and crawl its way into the lizard's nose, but the ant was too big to fit.
I watched the lizard for a while more, waiting for its tongue to dart out and grab the ant but the moment never came. The ant continued crawling all over the lizard's mouth and the lizard continued to lay there in the grass, apparently unconcerned by the trespasser. And I couldn't help but wonder why this lizard, who was clearly alive, wouldn't just eat this ant that was actively trying to crawl into its mouth.
I came to realize that, maybe, I was the problem.
Maybe the lizard was less concerned with eating the ant than worrying about my intentions as I loomed over it. And as we walked away, leaving the lizard and ant to their own lives, I wondered if maybe that was the key I'd been missing lately.
Sometimes you can't just expect things to happen. Sometimes you just have to walk away and trust that what you're sure will happen, will happen. Sometimes a horned lizard and an ant need space.
Sometimes if you want to tell a story, you have to find other stories to tell.
But there in the grass was a huge horned lizard.
As I stared down at it, an ant crawled across its eye. I squatted down to get a closer look and, indeed, there crawled a tiny black ant across the lizard's eye. I was sure, then, that it was dead but then its eyelid moved, trying to squeeze the ant's prying mandibles away. Still, my dog didn't notice it laying there. But I was fascinated. It blinked a few more times before the ant finally gave up trying to get into its eye and crawled across the lizard's scaly face toward its nostril. The lizard opened its eye and we both watched the ant try and crawl its way into the lizard's nose, but the ant was too big to fit.
I watched the lizard for a while more, waiting for its tongue to dart out and grab the ant but the moment never came. The ant continued crawling all over the lizard's mouth and the lizard continued to lay there in the grass, apparently unconcerned by the trespasser. And I couldn't help but wonder why this lizard, who was clearly alive, wouldn't just eat this ant that was actively trying to crawl into its mouth.
I came to realize that, maybe, I was the problem.
Maybe the lizard was less concerned with eating the ant than worrying about my intentions as I loomed over it. And as we walked away, leaving the lizard and ant to their own lives, I wondered if maybe that was the key I'd been missing lately.
Sometimes you can't just expect things to happen. Sometimes you just have to walk away and trust that what you're sure will happen, will happen. Sometimes a horned lizard and an ant need space.
Sometimes if you want to tell a story, you have to find other stories to tell.
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