In the beginning was the worm, and the worm was with a clod. And the worm was Claude. He was with a clod in the beginning, and through them all things were made. Without the worms and the germs and the clods of dirt, nothing was made that is now of this earth.

The dirt was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the heap. And Claude was hungering over the mud and the mire.

And Claude said, “Let there be bite”; and then he took a bite. And seeing that it was good, he took another bite. And from the soil he divided the clay. And from the clay, he divided the nitrogen. So that was the first clay.

Then Claude looked up at the clouds and down at the clods. And when Claude separated the clods from the clouds, he could see the heavens and the earth. And he saw that this was good.

Then with the next clay, Claude created the mounds and the knolls. Then he called on the dirt and the soil to bring forth the grass, the herbs, and every tree and fruit.

“Blessed are the seeds,” he said, “for the seeds shall inhabit the dirt.” And in due season, they would inhabit every heath and hillock.

Then Claude planted a garden. That garden would flourish with every tree that was good for food, and Claude saw that it was good. But not every tree was meant for eating.

Inside and outside of the garden, Claude crept. And in due season the garden was inhabited by humans, including but not necessarily limited to, both man and woman. And Claude wondered whether they were good.

Man and woman ate freely from the garden, but many plates were left unfinished. Many articles were cast out of the garden. There were leftovers and there were forbidden fruits. There were residues and there were residuals, and Claude saw that they were all good. And so the worm dwelt among the garbage of eaten.

It was a golden age for nematodes. All things were fruitful and all things multiplied. It was a time to be born and a time to plant. To everything there was a seasoning, and thyme for every purpose.

Whatever could be seasoned was rendered with seasoning. And what needed no seasoning was rendered unto Claude. And what Claude had joined together, no man or woman could tear asunder.

Then one day, Claude found himself in the valley of the shadow. Man and woman had stacked brick upon brick, building a tower whose top might reach the heavens. Until once again, darkness was on the face of the sheep.

Claude opposed their pride, but man and woman had sacrificed their only true sun and the light of the world. In the darkness, the flowers wilted, the vines withered, and the gourds worked in mysterious ways.

Forced to choose between the tree of life and the root of evil, every man woman and child decided for themselves. Even with twenty pieces of silverware, no man could serve two platters.

The sun came up and the sun went down. The cycle repeated but the lightbulbs would not be diminished and the darkness would not be mollified. Some travelled west and some travelled east. Some put down roots and others were uprooted. Some encountered generosity while others met with animosity. Some saved their clods and others paved over them. And for many generations, Claude was nowhere to be seen.

Then from the mist, a soft voice echoed. Those with the ears of corn could hear it, and those with the eyes of potatoes could see it. Until the cornucopia runneth over, with thanks and praises to the water and the sun and the whole compost.

Lettuce pray.

Winter noisily clears his throat.

“Good Christ,” he says, “I just can’t shake this thing.”
He theatrically spits,
paTOOey, like Clint Eastwood,
into the Great Lakes region.

(Another record-breaker in Buffalo).

The Wind hisses, snaking through the dead leaves that carpet the frozen forest floor.
“Repulsive,” she mutters, and the waving grasses nod in agreement.

Winter is not in the mood. He freezes the grasses where they stand.

The Wind shimmies up the nearest tree and settles herself on a boney limb. It sways gently, as if underwater, and a few lean grackles startle and take to the air.
“What’s eating you?”

The sky will be the same color all day,
so it’s difficult to tell the exact time.
Could be nine or noon or 4:30.
People hate days like this,
but Winter relishes them, revels in them. Nothing comforts him more than an oppressively slate gray sky.

“I scheduled my favorite sky today but I can’t enjoy it. I think I’m getting sick.” He summons up another storm and accidentally drops it, this time on New Orleans.

“You’re getting sloppy, old man,” she says flatly. Winter is blustering and aggressive and gets on The Wind’s nerves when they have to spend this much time together.

She arches her back and sighs in irritation, disturbing the surrounding fauna. From the canopy above erupts a cacophonous flurry, jarred from their roosting place and screaming into the air: cedar waxwings and white-crowned sparrows, dark-eyed juncos, mourning doves and a lone red shouldered hawk, which arcs above the rest eying them hungrily. It selects a small sparrow and abruptly knifes down toward it, effortlessly slicing the sky in two.

Winter and The Wind watch quietly, interestedly. It’s one thing neither of them has control over. Fate.

Evolution and animal behavior can be influenced to a degree; landscapes and eco systems crafted; civilizations built and destroyed as quickly and easily as drying up a river. What’s written in the stars, the plot and grand finale of every living being, that’s a different department entirely.

Winter leans in,
“My money’s on the big one.”
The Wind rolls her eyes,
“How on-brand. I would have bet on the little one anyway.”

The two birds, predator and prey, swoop and dive gracefully through the dark daytime sky, a carefully choreographed dance imprinted on each of their DNA since the dawn of their creation. The little sparrow is fast but the hawk is just too big. It will clearly catch her.

“I think it’s because I’m overworked,” Winter looks at The Wind, continuing. “The snow quotas were raised just about everywhere except my usual route, you know? The Poles are really starting to freak out and it’s like, I’m telling them, sometimes you’ve gotta give a little to get a lot. I don’t want to promise them a new Ice Age just yet but all signs point to yes. It’s time for another big boy freeze, Wind, I can feel it in my bones.”

The Wind is still watching the birds. “We can only do so much planning right now while everything is so unpredictable. My schedule has me fanning California wildfires this season and it’s a real drag. I didn’t agree to this project, but you can’t just say that, right? So I’m there, I’m doing it professionally, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a little outside my scope. Like, wildfires in the Palisades? I spoke to Fire and do you know it wasn’t even on her calendar? The extinction process is always so laborious and disorganized.”

The hawk is climbing altitude now, it won’t be long before it goes in for the ****. Exhausted, the sparrow flutters weakly, unable to give up.

Time briefly suspends, then a flash of feathers and talons and beak and it’s over. The little sparrow dies silently and maybe even gladly. She was so tired. Away, away, balanced upon the line of the horizon they both go, away to a nest or a cliffside to both fulfill their roles in the divine comedy.

“******* Nature.” The Wind has sat with Winter this way for aeons, since the birth of this place. She always bets on the small ones.

Winter smiles at her. “It’s been a long time since I had an Ice Age.” He clears his throat again and makes to rid himself of it, but The Wind cuts him off.

“You’re disgusting, I can’t sit here with you while you snow, it skeeves me out. I have a meeting with a weather system over the Baltic Sea that I can’t be late for anyway. Look, if you’re sick, you should rest. The next Ice Age can wait.”

She blows him a kiss and is gone, and the forest stills.

Winter is alone again. He begins the satisfying work of preparing for the evening’s offerings: black velvet darkness beneath a swath of gray expanse. An ice storm in the wee hours will see a glorious sunrise in a crystalline wood, the light dancing and refracting joyfully from blade to base to branch. He enjoys Wind’s company but doesn’t miss her. No one will lay eyes on tonight’s workings but the forest creatures and the celestials. This one is for them, and for the white-crowned sparrow. She deserves a holy funeral.

The hawk, back in its nest, gazes steadily at the slate gray sky. Night is coming. The hawk breathes in and out. In and out.

In.

And out.

all that pain
and belittlement
you served me
day and night
when no one
was looking
made the little
man within you
feel much, much,
much bigger
but now you
stand before me
weeping
with no teeth
and the big man
within me
has forgiven you.