"Dad! Look, look at all these worms!", and even I squirmed, worms not usually bothersome but a handful of five or more wriggly creatures, ick. She dropped them into a pile in the front yard, rubbed her filthy muddy hands all over the front of her pink flowered sundress and took off to find more, for her always expanding worm collection. The large pink bow in her hair now a little askew, having been pushed back repeatedly by the small wormy hand.
Her sister, dressed in long khaki shorts, a navy blue t-shirt and a baseball cap, recoiled in terror. The very idea of one worm, much less an overflowing handful, sent her racing to the certain safety of the front porch, away from the dirt and insect infested yard. She remained in that safe spot for the better part of the afternoon, watching her sister run from worm pile to dig site and back again.
My Dog is a Plumber
My dog is a plumber. He must be a boy,
Although I must tell you his favorite toy
Is a little play stove with pans and with pots,
Which he really must like, 'cause he plays with it lots,
So perhaps he's a girl -- which kind of makes sense,
Since he can't throw a ball and he can't climb a fence,
But neither can dad -- and I know he's a man,
And mom is a woman and she drives a van.
Maybe the problem is in trying to tell
Just what someone is by what she does well?
-Dan Greenburg
No comments:
Post a Comment