Seeing dried up worms on pavement makes me tremendously sad.
I picture the poor little worm, crawling along in the grass, inching along happy and cool until it comes to cement or brick.
It starts across, thinking, “This is a wee bit hot, but I can make it.” (Inexplicably all worms have Irish accents. Or at least Vermont worms do.)
The worm wiggles across the pavement, getting hotter and hotter, moving slower and slower, not knowing that it doesn’t stand a chance of making it across the entire parking lot or sidewalk alive.
It’s too far, too sizzling.
After a while it can’t continue and stops.
But the poor little worm doesn’t die right then, ending its misery. It lies there, stuck to the hot cement, drying up little by little, just waiting to go to worm paradise.
(I think worm heaven is in the dirt, deep below ground, not in the sky, don’t you?)
It has to be painful, to dehydrate like that. To practically fry to death.
We have a stone walkway to our house and worms seem drawn to it.
Whenever I find one who it’s in the throes of dehydration, but still squirming, I always dribble some cool water on it and move it into the grass.
And I imagine the relief it must feel to be in the shady lawn, moist again.
Even if the worm dies anyway, and they usually do, at least it died with a little comfort.
I’m like a worm hospice worker.