There is a strip of little stones along the walkway beside the cottage in the woods on the hill by the lake. Michigan stones with reds, grays, and blues; pinks, greens, and whites. The stuff of grinding glaciers and rushing streams. Stones smoothed by the years, gathered with care, intentionally set along the walk to accentuate it with some geology of this place, or perhaps just because they’re nice.
Recent years have had their way. Sand and leaves and pine needles and other flimflam had filled in the gaps, covered some of the rocks, muted their accentuation, diminished their niceness. And so it was time to dig in the dirt to clear the debris of those years. I suspect that in years past my mother likely tended to the stones, but she is not here to continue that work. So this year I assumed the flimflam-clearing role, taking sand and needles and leaves away one handful at a time now and then over several days — a project that terminated today.
At the end of the line where the stones stop, as I cleared the last handful, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little something slithering. A dark wiggling thing working its way between the stones. Too short for a snake, too long for a worm, it was a super slender salamander with a shiny brown body and tiny little legs.
A reward for tending to little things.