ㅁ The slug proceeded down the forest path. It was a leisurely, one-footed stroll. The sky attempted rain. But nature's math miscalculated, missed that hoped-for goal. Instead the damp air licked at leaves, and clouds just hovered low and ominous, like ghouls. In trees the birds made plots in secret crowds, and droplets hung, undried, from leaves like jewels. I took a walk, then, clearing out my mind. The patterns shifted. "That's quite strange," I mused. The randomness of things seemed all designed. These apophenic turns kept me confused. And meditating thus, a hole I'd dug appeared. And so I fell. "Well! Hi there, slug."
– a sonnet in iambic pentameter.
