Dead Worms

Rain. It brings out the best in nature. Plants and trees drink it in and produce wonderful greenery and fragrant flowers. Birds flutter bathe in it. Dirt and grime are washed away. The air seems cleaner, fresher. The worms come out to play.

Really. By the hundreds. They squirm across sidewalks and parking lots, wriggling in the sloppy wetness as if playing at an amusement park. I dodge not only the puddles, but the skinny brown strips littering the parking lot. I tiptoe and twist my step to avoid the little buggers, but its nearly impossible.

Where do they come from? Yes, there is a lawn nearby, and one would expect the lawn to have its share of worms, but this seems excessive. Where are the birds that should be out here feasting? I hear their calls, why aren't they swooping in for lunch?

Half the worms are silent and lifeless, shriveling despite the water they lie in. Half are sluggishly floundering about, far from the green haven covering their dirt homes. A few are actively heading somewhere. I wonder if they are lost. Do they realize they are headed 'out to sea' towards the center of the blacktopped parking lot, far from their desired destination? Do they realize the danger from cars who will squash them flat without even knowing?

Well, its all too much for me. I used to gather up fat nightcrawlers in an old dirt filled can after a good rainstorm, hanging on to them until a weekend fishing trip. But this is too much for the boldest fisherman. I manage to avoid most of them as I head inside. I wish them well on their journey.