It was barely 2 inches long, azure blue with fine yellow streaks down each side. Frantic in motion, darting in spurts, pouncing on dried leaves 10 times its size. Relentless, ever forward, snapping at the tiny fluttering and crippled moth but getting only mouthfuls of air. The whole scene took less than a minute, and ended in defeat--the meal got away. The skink slithered back to its damp, underworld hollow. Still hungry.
I reveled in the private show my ambling stroll had provided, and thought of him, way ahead of me, out of sight. If he would only slow down, stop embracing destination, savor the moment, he too could have observed the dance, my arrogance muttered.
It was then I rounded the bend and noticed him. Pensively poised, palms overlapping, cupping the walking stick under his chin, I followed his gaze--a dear in the glen, grazing on green.
In the end, I was the one humbled. Why all the frantic activity? Why always chasing the moth? The doe of the morning has all it needs right under its feet.
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life,
what you will eat or drink;
or about your body, what you will wear.
See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.
Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor
was dressed like one of these.