Don’t you remember them, the furred legs of a caterpillar moving along your arm, each follicle prickling beneath their touch? The crumpling of the ladybug’s underwings as it tucked them back beneath its glossy shell. The butterfly on your finger unfurling its long, spiral tongue. Rows and rows of ants, hefting their white eggs. The fly’s head bowed, antennae bent under the careful work of forelegs as it bathed its large composite eye. One, no bigger than a speck, left tufts of foam in your palm; another, a pool of green. Some rolled themselves into a pill-shaped ball at the slightest touch, while others, no matter how you tried, refused. What was it about the workings of their small bodies, the click of the mandibles or the steady pulse of the thorax, so nipped at the center it seemed tied with string? Almost electric, the way they zipped through the grass, sunlight caught in iridescence. Remember? How the dirt glinted and shimmered, how the blind earth once writhed, alive in your hands.