by Sinclaire Gibson
I forgot that the worms come out when it rains.
and with them the robins,
who flood the grass looking for a little snack.
A thick fog coats campus,
moisture wrapping me up as I walk along.
Their carcasses are strewn across the sidewalk
drowning in puddles of water
and wishes for alternative endings.
Why don’t the robins want the free worms,
incapable of getting back home?
Why do they instead spend the morning
searching through the soil,
displacing ones that still have hope to survive?