As day began to break, we passed
the “honk for worms” sign,
passed it honking again
and again, to wake up the worms
my dad said. It was only
about another half mile to
the aspen grove and our worm digs.
The humus, spongy and almost
black, turned over easily.
I used my bare hands to put
some moist earth into a coffee can
and, as the aspen glittered
in the risen sun, I gently
slid the fresh, fat bait into my container.
I heard the worms still in the ground
gurgle as they tried to escape,
while the ones in the can began
to ball up as their numbers grew.
Streamside, surrounded by mountains
with snow lingering into summer,
I picked out a worm and my dad
arranged it on the hook to save
my small fingers. Now you can purchase
a time-share on that land.
The colony of aspen, thinned
by the builders, continues to
tremble. No amount of honking
brings back the worms.