Livora Gracely

The bird belonged to the Reading Society.

Everyone knew this because he always carried two books.

Sometimes three.

Once, during spring, he accidentally carried five and missed lunch entirely.

No one considered this unusual.

Reading Society members occasionally forgot meals.

It was practically in the handbook.

Every morning he visited the muddy field.

Not because he enjoyed mud.

Because worms preferred it.

Unfortunately, so did his glasses.

The lenses were wonderfully suited for reading tiny print.

Less successful at locating breakfast.

The worms had noticed.

Long ago.

They held meetings.

Not official meetings.

Official-looking meetings.

One worm served as secretary.

Another insisted on minutes.

None of them could write.

This never delayed proceedings.

“The scholar is coming,” whispered the smallest worm.

Everyone stood straighter.

They believed teasing should be conducted with dignity.

The first worm performed a graceful bow.

The second twirled.

The third pretended to faint dramatically into the mud.

The bird lowered his enormous spectacles until they nearly touched the ground.

“I distinctly heard breakfast.”

Nothing.

He shuffled left.

The worms shuffled right.

He peered closer.

The worms froze.

He blinked.

They continued dancing.

A passing snail paused long enough to applaud.

The bird sighed.

“My books never move around this much.”

The worms considered that an excellent compliment.

Tomorrow’s agenda immediately gained a new item:

Dance with greater enthusiasm.

High above the puddle, on an old fence post, a tiny young bird watched everything in complete silence.

She had never seen worms behave like performers.

She had never seen a grown bird politely apologize to the mud after missing another worm.

The large bird eventually straightened his sweater, dusted off his books, and nodded toward the field.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “we shall all have better luck tomorrow.”

He flew home.

The worms remained unusually still.

No one danced.

The secretary finally cleared his throat.

“I don’t think he was talking about breakfast.”

The next morning, the smallest worm arrived early.

He brushed a neat little patch of mud smooth with his tail.

No one had asked him to.

It simply seemed like the proper place for someone who always came back looking.