
The worms are writing a song in my garden, rustling their slick bodies
through the leaves in a rising crescendo, inspired by the rain.
If one were musically inclined, they could accompany these worms
but only softly, because if you’re too loud,
you’ll scare them and they’ll stop.
They like flutes. They don’t like cellos.
The worms hear my footsteps across the yard and grow silent just as I approach
pick up their song again with verve and zest in the wake of my passing.
If I were musically inclined, I’m sure I could pace my footsteps in such a way
that I could create my own songs
by chasing them back and forth
through the dried fronds of ferns.



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