During the summer's warm afternoon rains, worms emerge from the wet soil. They push their small pink heads up toward the surface of the earth and draw their bodies onto wet grass, where they can breathe fresh air and glide across the ground. But when the rain stops and the sun comes out, those worms that travelled too far onto the road become stuck.
I find them during my morning walks, writhing in the heat as the sun bakes them alive. Their little bodies twist and turn as they desperately try to return to the safety of the soil beneath the grass. Watching them struggle so violently, one might wonder why they can't just save themselves by using that energy to wriggle off the road. The worm corpses left behind after the rain suggest that their journey is more difficult than it seems – on the surface, far from their underground burrows, worms can get stranded. Their task is Sisyphean, their dilemma at once futile and inescapable. For that reason, I like to think that I understand them a little. They’re just like us, trying to get where they’re going.
My worm-rescue protocol is simple and, as far as I can tell, effective. I lift the worms off the road with a stick or leaf and gently place them in the grass nearby. Taking my cue from our politicians, my motto is simple: "No worm left behind."
