Rain swamps the already saturated ground and up they come, wriggling their oozy pink bodies through the soil’s surface and sluicing between beaded blades of grass. The thrumming of rain on the ground sounds like mole vibrations, sending earthworms twisting to the surface to escape. Once above the density of soil, aided by the slick liquidity of puddled turf, they move more easily, their routes undulating and haphazard. Some too soon bump up against sidewalks and twist along its coarse, unburrowable surface, scraping their fleshy underbellies, writhing on the barren slabs of concrete. Their pink lengths no longer have the slimy safety of grass and dirt to navigate, so they flop there stranded. Careless feet smash some into the pavement. Puddles drown others. In a few hours there are hundreds of them littering the sidewalks, and as we walk to chapel we dodge them, walking wrratically, avoiding especially the ones still twisting and flailing towards softer ground.
Days later, the carcasses are still there, creating curved patterns and random streaks, but niw they are dessicated and pressed into the rough surface. No longer pink and fleshy, their bodies are grey and inextricable from the concrete. Another rain a few days later reconstitutes them, but only as pulpy disintegrated strands, almost unrecognizable as the worms they once were. In a few days they will be completely scrubbed into the grainy surface of sidewalk and will disappear.