Untitled No. 2

     The rain flushed the worms out of the earth, sent them squirming and slithering onto the sidewalks and into the street, fleeing the pond for the stream, wherever they went, going there to drown.

     The lanes through the park were full of them: pink squiggles, writhing, slithering, floating bloated threads. Feet moving faster than a saunter were destined to mash them, and where the plum blossoms matted to the eucalyptus blades, the simple creatures simply didn't have a chance.

     Those that made it to and over the curb dropped into a stream flowing to the storm sewers. Their vermicular side-winding a desperate dance, their valiant attempts to burrow a nose into the slit lining the gutter, futile. Whether riding the current, caught in the debris blocking the drain, or rushing out to sea, a dismal, waterlogged finish.