An English In Kentucky


















Thursday July 17th 2014  Tim Candler


    In eye of the it's beholder the Compost Piles, as they are currently configured here where I live are things of beauty and magnificence. Glorious structures with only a very few points of impasse, one of which is quite dangerous and tetanus sharp. And I guess that's what God said to himself when he created the universe before retiring to the cooler places for a light refreshment and the applause of angels. Wasn't long of course before the beseeching began, and here where I live I am beginning to think that our own subterranean community have eaten all the Worms.

     Didn't see one today that I'd call a Worm. A tragic little creature, he was, keeping perfectly still. They are cold blooded, so if you pick one up with your fingers, I have been told, for a Worm it's kind of like being touched by a hot iron. So I moved it out of the way of compost turning equipment in a shovel full of what I am proud to call tilth.  It's possible too, that given the hours and endless hours of moving stuff around, distressing the traditional Compost Pile habitat, the Worms have just given up and have all moved to more peaceful places.

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