The early bird gets the worm? By Connor Kaplan

The early bird gets the worm? By Connor Kaplan

So the early bird gets the worm. Really?

Today I was walking to get food and

noticed a flock of petite birds pecking

the ground, like a chicken does when seeds of

corn and other plants are dropped to feed them.

Then I thought about the ye old saying.    Solid

“The early bird gets the worm”, but

the birds I was staring at were getting

worms and other bugs that littered the grass.

This was not morning, it was not early.

Maybe the saying originated

from  an observation that early day

had worms crawling, slithering all about.  Nice!

This is most likely because at morning

the ground is wet due to the fog at night.

So my observation of birds getting

the worm during the day is different.   Thematically strong but a tad cliche

So should the saying change or does it have

a new meaning. Like wake up early or

seizing opportunities before that

guy you know will even think about it.

As a bird can get the worm if it sees

water on the ground because bugs tend to.    Sounds like a science lesson

come out to the water source like a plant

moving to the greatest place for sunlight.

Pecking towards the cold damp ground, lifting off

to fly away from a large predator.

Finding the worms first only to be joined

by the rest of flock squawking about.

So am I the night crawler or the bird?  Ballin final line, check

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Poem of the Day: The Hen Swallows a Worm or Slug

Posted: Fri, 10 May 2013 00:00:00 -0600

We scratch at the backyard together

through leaf mould, worm casings she kicks off

in a fan behind her. I use a stick

to dig, to find for her what she’s shown me

near the roots, at the edge of a step—sticky

slug on the underside of a hosta’s leaf.

How complicated she is and how resigned.

Between her beak and my outstretched hand,

the worm’s writhing. Then the long slick going

down. It fills the throat, like all that’s swallowed.

        Her head chucks it back,

        for the worm again dark.

        The hen’s pupil dilates.

        She wends and follows.

Her queries, sighs, low gurgles, the hastening

click of her nails on pavement then hungry

again into the grass. Grubs are larger

than pale yellow larvae I prize from inside

chestnuts. These mucousy blind wanderers

she eats right from my palm. Nevertheless I am

repulsed by my husband’s embrace. I turn

now from his thick belly, breasts, his interests.

A body I had clambered over, loved.

I scrabble, struggle. I cover myself.

        Another sticky truth dug up

        that I must re-bury—

        sorry on hands and knees,

        hungry and wary.

Source: Poetry (October 2009).