When astronomers talk about our place in the universe, they like to use the metaphor that we are just a speck of life on a speck of rock in the vast sea of outer space. There is an implied insignificance to this metaphor, but when I think of how much goes on in those tiny specks that I view under my lens, I find a kind of hope and joy in thinking I’m a part of this seemingly never-ending iteration of scale.

Take, for example, these worms:

I found these living in the molted shell of a mosquito larva, taken from a sample of rainwater in the knot of a tree in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. Trying to imagine what they must think of this object they live in, this tiny bit of flotsam in an equally tiny puddle, I realize they, too, are masters of this domain, pestered always by smaller paramecia, pestered in turn by bacteria and viruses and so on down the line.

Or take this mite:

Trapped in a floating bit of algae, it made its way across my sample container, a giant in comparison to many of the creatures I look at.

There is no sorrow in being tiny. Nor is there insignificance to it. Rather, it is all a part of a magnificent struggle by creatures big and small, all on a scale much larger than we could possibly imagine.