It was the rain that pushed

Their soil-y existence skyward, so

Many sojourners exodus-ing that

Cold water-welling. The big fat

Worms splayed their forms

Long, gazed the concrete

Sidewalk, considering their odds,

Noting the fried markers of

Painted bodies previously scorched,

They made their decision to risk

The crawl, a worming Iditarod,

Grueling and wet, slinking their

Freshly-minted bodies over

Vast swatches of unyielding

Terrain, groaning the victory.

 

What bloodlust in their pulsing,

Heaving slinking bodies towards

The far pool and dirt new! The

Night’s cool breeze teased taut

Longing, moon-baked dreams of

Warm, dark loam pushed. Yet

Miles above and unbeknownst,

A god, perhaps an image of God,

Strode perplexed by the mad dash

Walking, careful not to tread

Over such holy movement, at

Once amazed by nature’s thrust

And daring, yet sad to note

The non-existent chance any of

Them had of lasting the night.