On a half dozen summer nights in our married life, Mark and I have sat on our front steps, heads bent low as we watch the ground undulate while earthworms turn the soil. It is an amazing thing to see (and hear!) all that life churning underfoot.
Most of us would assume such flimsy creatures couldn't do that kind of hard work.
This morning, on my wet walk through Woods Park, I was again reminded of the fortitude of the earthworm. Lacking the grace and magnitude of the Sandhills Crane migration, it was still a sight to see--thousands upon thousands of worms wending their way across newly-sprung stream beds, making it nearly impossible not to step on them. Some, swimming diligently through inches-deep pools, made me wonder how long an earthworm can hold its breath, and what it is inside of them that makes their will to live so strong.
I am usually a sucker for an earthworm stuck on a sidewalk, but it quickly became obvious to me this morning that it would take a village to nudge all of these creatures to higher, drier ground. And, really, where is the drier ground these days?
Even Woods Park's resident Mallard couple seemed flummoxed by all that water, their usually grassy home now a pool of not-quite Olympic proportions.
This morning, it is as though the saturated earth has finally belched up its insides, no more room at the inn, thank you. And all those subterranean residents are scrambling for their lives, dodging dog paws and soaked sneakers along the way, while the walkers curse the rains for their inconvenience.
I had to go back and reread in Genesis this morning to be reminded that God promised not to destroy the earth by flood waters again. I'm hoping to see that rainbow soon. My basement could sure a reprieve.
ReplyDeleteAmen to that, Sabrina!
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