A Knot of Worms

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.