In the middle of the garden

She kept her eye on the snails. They swarmed quietly, not aware, sluicing and gluing across the pavement, across the bark. Sightless eyes stretching, not knowing.
She had her basket ready. She had her milk in a pot on the marble table. She had her mouth watering. She saw the old cave and she heard the old breath of an ancient snail.
One shell lodged under a broken Roman column. One snail shell once stepped on by old Roman feet. By unknowing sandals. Crushing the spiraling color, the chewy slug inside.
In this day, in this time, they are back and she is waiting to re-capture them.
They are not waiting. They know nothing about history.