The gentle patter of rain on my umbrella fades away. I tilt back and look at the sky; light rays begin to pierce through the clouds. The smell of wet earth lingers in the air. My grandfather used to call days like these "worm days," days when a morning sprinkle compels earthworms to wriggle out of the earth and soak in the humid air together.
I shake the water off my umbrella and tuck it underneath my arm, following suit with other pedestrians nearby; the rustling fabric and jangling metal sound out a symphony for sunshine. A barista is kneeling in front of a signboard, sketching today's specials in calligraphic chalk colors. Across the street, a baker steps out to change their sign from "closed" to "open," a whiff of fresh bread sneaks out behind them.
My belief was once that rain presented a danger to worms. I imagined the water slowly filling their little worm caves--soaking their little worm carpets and their little worm upholstery. However, worms are comfortable underwater. Not only can they survive multiple days submerged, but they even require a certain degree of moisture in order to breathe.
Two children dart out a door, one chasing the other, each screaming to the tune of unfettered imagination. A parent hangs laundry from a wire above the street, carefully pinning the damp cloth in place.
Any fisher can tell you that worms come to the surface because of vibrations. Worm hunters call their practice "worm grunting" or "worm fiddling." Driving a stake into the ground and stroking a rough length of metal against it will cause the ground to vibrate. The worms have evolved a simple rule: when the ground shakes, go up. Yet they hearken the rain and the fiddler the same.
A trolley stops nearby and drops off a package of pedestrians, all jostling against one another as they exit. The street starts to crowd, and they sweep me into a commuter current.
Worms are social creatures. If they are able to find one another, they sometimes form herds, navigating together via touch to find better soil. At least part of the reason they come out in the rain is because they can travel further on the surface and with less effort as a group.
I am in the sidewalk flow now, walking in order to reach my destination and walking because the people around me compell me to do so. It is a strange energy; I can't shake the feeling of being gently pushed despite making no contact. Somehow, surrounded by others, I'm unable to slow my gait. But it is not unpleasant; it is easy to walk this way.
Without effort, I break the connection, stepping to the side and allowing other pedestrians to pass me by. I observe them for a moment, then let my gaze drift upward. A rainbow arcs before the remaining clouds and blue sky--the final piece for a wonderful worm day.