The Worm

         He paused: the worm lay dead before him.  A blind thing, it had braved the concrete for reasons known only to the past.  Whether the ants or the sun can be blamed, the worm lay dead before him: red stained round tube, burnt black from the unforgiving rays of light, covered with tiny moving spots.  Each ant would tear a piece from the whole and march away. 

         Like a rock against water, slowly the worm would give way to the relentless tide of hungry mouths.  Who would mourn the passing of the worm?  The ants would collect their bounty, though neither a word of mirth or gratitude would pass their cruel pincers. 

         Yet, they had no grudge against the worm.  As the worm had existed, so too were the ants existing: empty, without fear or joy.

         Emotion was superfluous to the process: reason an extravagance.  The automatons of nature cannot will or resist, only act.  And so, the mindless drones wore down the worm bit-by-bit.

         He could only pity the worm that lay dead before him: how sad, he thought.  The creature had passed through this world not knowing of love, happiness, sorrow, laughter, thought, ideas, or any of the other wonders humanity, blest though it may be, so rarely marvels at.  Shutting the front door, the man turned to cross the street: the worm already a distant shallow memory, the brooding gave way to considerations of an urgent errand of some sort or other. 

         Why the worm had crossed the sidewalk the man would never know.  A car’s horn shattered his worries: the things left to do, the short time to do it in.  A car ended his life. 

         Why the man crossed the street we shall never know.  Pity the worm; pity the man.