Sitting on a bench in dappled sunlight,
stitching,
my needle drops off the end of my
heavy linen thread,
down to the grass below.
A momentary panic,
proverbial haystacks clouding my vision,
then reason prevails.
It’s a large needle,
there’s only a small section of lawn,
directly beneath me,
where it could be.
I kneel in the grass,
damp soaking into my pants,
peering into the forest of blades.
Between the green,
a ringed tube of earthy red,
glossy, moving.
A worm spelunking home.
[scs_alt]
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