The Worm

The leaves rustled in a low breeze across the dying grass as boots scuffled on the pavement just beyond.

Down below the decay being slowed by the coming winter crawled a worm. Tender and pink. Sightless. As fragile a living thing has ever been.

The mower had come one last time. Feet stomped. Dogs sniffed.

But the worm stayed low, afraid, yet unable to go anywhere else.

Except down into the earth. As the day became dusk.

And the warm nights grew cool with ominous frost.

And more leaves fell.