Up, they always climb up. Every year, in early May, the caterpillars come. Lots of them. And whatever direction they have open to them, it's always up they choose.
They climb that way, but they don't always go that way. Sometimes they fall. Especially in the grass. They climb to the tip of a blade. It bends. They over stretch, and fall. In the grass. They do this over and over again.
Then one day, somehow, they know. It is time to be still. One last thing they do, spinning about themselves a fuzzy silken cocoon. Now protected, secluded, silent.
In their stillness they are steadily transformed.
