Today, the tiny woman who drives the bus inside my head is sitting behind my eyes with her sleeve pulled over her forearm, wiping the fog away from the window. I'll hear nothing about Monday's. A day of the week is just as inconsequential as the distance between friends of the soul. Besides, if days were seasons, Monday is spring. Fresh, dewy and just underripe. A harvest pear.
I've wanted to share this reptile experience with you for quite some time. Picture this: you're on a treasure hunt following a map. You can follow the paths to seek the grail as much as you wish. But the "X" that marks the spot, it finds you.
Behold my success. I'll compare this fruitful adventure to my greatest life achievements. Truly! These little friends were seriously difficult to find.
Three. I found not one but three! Well, Johanna found the last one. It was walking across the path at a glacial speed.
They are the color of dirt and then they're not. The color of leaves and then gone altogether. They are prisms reflecting the hues of their perches.
Chameleons don't change colour to camouflage themselves. Their varying colours are social signals to other chameleons.
When handled by humans or pursued by predators, chameleons turn nearly black. It's a signal of fear and discomfort. Best to leave them to their musings.