Two Snails Kissing on Cherries: A Moment of Unexpected Beauty

The first time I saw them, I was leaning against the kitchen counter, a bowl of freshly picked cherries between my hands. The fruit was still cool from the morning dew, their skins taut and glossy. Then, there they were—two snails, their bodies glistening, slowly inching toward each other on the surface of a cherry. No rush, no hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of their movement.

I held my breath. The snails met, their antennae brushing lightly, as if testing the air between them. Then, their lips touched—a kiss so gentle it barely disturbed the cherry’s surface. It wasn’t dramatic or grand. It was just... there. A moment of connection, unhurried and unapologetic. I thought of how rarely we allow ourselves such stillness, such presence.

As a writer, I’ve spent years chasing deadlines, words, ideas—always moving, always pushing. But here, in this tiny encounter, I found something different. The snails didn’t care about time. They didn’t care about the world beyond that cherry. They were entirely absorbed in the act of meeting, of touching, of being. It was a lesson in patience, in the quiet power of slowing down.

I recalled a quote from the naturalist E.O. Wilson: ‘The more we study the world, the more we find that the simplest things are often the most profound.’ These snails, with their slow, deliberate kiss, were proof of that. There was no grand gesture, no fireworks. Just two creatures, existing in a moment that felt both fleeting and eternal.

The cherry beneath them was slightly bruised from their weight, but it didn’t matter. The snails weren’t there to consume or destroy. They were there to connect. And in that connection, I saw something rare—a reminder that beauty doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it’s just there, waiting for us to notice.

I thought about how often we overlook these moments. How we scroll past them, rush through them, dismiss them as insignificant. But this? This was anything but insignificant. It was a small rebellion against the noise, a quiet insistence on the value of stillness. And it made me wonder: How many other moments like this have I missed?

By the time the snails parted, the cherry was slightly softer, their trails glistening in the light. They moved away from each other, not with sadness, but with the quiet satisfaction of a moment well spent. I set the bowl down, my fingers lingering on the edge. The encounter had lasted only a few minutes, but it stayed with me long after.

In the days that followed, I found myself returning to that moment. Not with nostalgia, but with a new awareness. The snails hadn’t changed the world. They hadn’t even changed the cherry. But they had changed me. They had shown me that beauty isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s just two snails, kissing on a cherry, and the quiet magic of being present enough to see it.