Worms

We walk and the worms
squirm in puddles at our feet
They're trying to swim
The dog looks at me as if
in agreement
Curious
his lips curl as he speaks
with head cocked
ever so slightly to the left
I continue,
but they're actually drowning...

Rain has been smothering us
for days now
the gray sky has sunk his teeth
in and
all around our feet
worms are flooding up
from the winter grass

Children
waiting for the school bus
stand pink with Dora the Explorer
umbrellas like mushrooms with
booted legs
Cars spin around wet corners
and fleshy curls unfurl themselves
in puddle after puddle

So much for evolutionary adaptation
This is the dog -- dreadlock wet --
He shakes starting with his
nose, ending with the tip of his tail
Refreshed we continue walking
counting worms at our feet
Some have given up
Others lift one end or the other
confused about head
and tail
Breath and death

We turn the corner for
home and black crows perch
at the edges of our house
digging their black beaks
into the deep compost of
our gutters
searching for
worms

Down here I jest pointing
a swollen finger at the
pool of water just this side of our gate
Instinct says the dog and I
cock my head
slightly to the right
curious

-----------------------------------------------------

Today I do not have to teach. I'm supposed to be working from home, but I'm waiting for my teaching partner to arrive. I'm hoping she's late. Avoiding work feels right today. Rubin agrees. He's sighing under the desk, curled up in a ball still damp from this morning's walk.

I haven't had much time to write these past weeks. Work is burdened with too much paperwork and kids who can't get along with one another. "They've watched too many episodes of Survivor," my teaching partner says, "And they're trying to figure out who to vote off the island."

Maybe it's just me. With my decision to leave teaching, maybe now the ugly warts of this job are more apparent. Or maybe it's just this class. There are some sweet kids, but there are some real pieces of work. Psychological work. I can't decide if this is a good way to end it -- to leave with such a challenging group or wait it out for a "good season" like Brett Favre.

Hard to say.

Meanwhile, I'm keeping my panic at bay. The bigness of this move haunts me at times. I wake up and suck in cold air early in the morning. "What the hell am I doing?" and then Ann calms me down and let's me know it will be alright.

"We won't starve," she tells me and then, as she falls asleep adds, "And losing a little weight won't hurt either of us."

Then, when my head is wrapped around one worry or the other, weird things happen. Last night, for instance, I took Lucy (the Boston Terrier) to her training class and brought her home to her mom's house later in the evening. Dani, Lucy's owner, had some friends over. One of the friends is a dog walker. "Wow, I've been looking for a dog walker!" I explain how the high school student up the street is unreliable and unpredictable. Hannah, this new dog walker, is excited about walking our dog. We talk about dates and she gives me her number. "I've just gone out on my own," she tells me.

"Is it working out?" I ask.

"Amazingly," she smiles. "I panicked about the move for months, but it's turning out to be perfect."

Trust the universe is what my woo-woo friend would say, but I'm not that woo-woo. Still, there's something to be said for leaping.

We won't starve.