Something moves on the sidewalk, writhing, 
like butter across a red-hot griddle, 
while post-storm steam swirls upwards like the 
gyre of turkey vultures riding the August-
afternoon thermals. 

The worm turned left not right, and now lies
on a concrete stove-top, rather than
lounging in the rain-drop bower of
zoysia grass. 

A “lower” creature, I know. Non-
sentient—no real nervous system, but 
clearly in distress. Darwin would let 
fate play leading man—
not me.

Sliding a fish hook through their coelom
I don’t cringe—there is purpose in that
pain, but here there is none. I sigh and
use thumb and index finger to pitch 
the worm far onto the 
wet grass. 

Today’s jog will be spent saving worms—
bending from the waist is a good stretch.
                        

The last decade brought a pair of 
Mississippi Kites to our back yard.
They nested in ’13 and ‘14 until 
the new guy behind us massacred his
trees for a McMansion to match 
his Mercedes dealership.

The kites reloed down the block and still
soar the yard on alternate Tuesdays 
and Thursdays, returning from Brazil
in May, and winging back in October.
These birds give grace—the comfort of
a December sunset, or the caress of 
redbud flowers in March.

When I run south, through the open canopy 
of Lumpkin St., they sometimes circle 
just above me—their broad wings and delta 
tail speak of angels, and discovery of  
the Sabbath to be found in every day.
                        

7:23 am and the morning sun 
pries sweat from scalp and forehead, 
a saline bath, poor-man’s spa, it runs into 
my eyes and stings almost as much as 
seeing new subdivided lots only 
92 yards from the high tide line.

They’ve been dozed, but indigenous plants
say “not so fast”, and even some sand pines 
are left, to karate chop the breeze. Beach 
sunflowers match the chrome-yellow, eastern
orb—every name has a maritime preface 
here in the Eastern Panhandle, from random
clumps of sea oats that resemble Dad’s 
scalp after chemo, to the white trumpets 
of beach morning glories trying to climb
the laid PVC sewer lines sticking 
up through sugar-sand like the tips of a
fossilized plesiosaur that crawled 
up on the beach to die, but these “bones” 
presage Lexus wagons and sockless loafers. 

This land is residual, the “forgotten 
coast”, and many things sport a broken face, 
especially Gramma Earth—strewn with
beer cans and scraggly plastic bags from 
the Pig. Yesterday, I parked my Highlander
next to a Bentley rag-top, oxymoronically 
sitting at the Dollar Store, which sells 
produce because food deserts aren’t just in 
cities. The driver was sheathed in a Red 
Sox jersey and had one of those chi
chi pony tails that looked like the 
ass-end of a sow in October. His face 
twisted into a sneer worthy of 
De Niro as I slowly opened my 
paint-chipped door, making sure to leave 
a half-court of air between our vehicles.

He was looking at a flyer for beach lots.