no worms

this frozen morning stillness,
broken only by the wren,
fruitlessly digging through a pile of leaves
in search of a worm;
and the background hum
of windchimes mimicking Bach;
and the modern whoosh
of a car passing on the road;
the snow frozen solid all around
with the sun turning it into colors;
a gull screams displeasure,
as I realize that
we are going nowhere fast;
the tide goes out,
but enough of it remains
to drown out all our vanities;
the wind comes up
just enough
to make the sane
seek shelter,
but like the missing worm,
the wren and I
find none.

January 10, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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