Every night, I walk my dog around 12am.
I pulled a red leash from the closet, bent down to my knowing dog, and clasped it onto her collar. She danced around me as I fidgeted with the brass lock, trying to work my way out the door without tripping over dog, leash, or anything in between. When the door swung open, I felt an immediate drop in temperature. Without the incessant beating of the sun, the night air felt almost cool to my exposed skin.
About halfway through my walk, my dog wandering off in pursuit of quality grass to contaminate, a little object cried out for my attention from the pavement. There it was, a perfectly round acorn, brown rocking against the black. But there was no wind. In fact, there was a distinct lack of any movement. Except for the intrusive rummaging of my dog’s nose and this small acorn, the world lay completely still.
Spinning around its center, a little green cap on its head, the acorn rolled until it hit a crack in the road. For a moment, it stopped, as if considering how to get over or around the crack. But then, instead, it did neither and moved with the crack, trundling on its merry way until the crack ended. When it had made its way to the end, the acorn moved upwards. And beneath it, pushing with a fierce determination, stood a tiny armor-plated insect working tirelessly to lift something thirty times its size.