Quiet movement

Sure, certain, progressive
Like the worm. Underground
Until the sound of drumming rain
Brings her to surface
Otherwise. Carefully digesting that
In her wake
Leaving a cast as a namesake

In circles; sometimes. Or spirals,
Always straight at the task in hand
Till the rock, or the sand,
or keen birds land.

Instinctive brain, making sense, all the same.
Unfettered, we like to think
By the burden of intellectuality
Who is to say
The worm doesn’t borrow as it burrows?

Into the presence of presents.
Constants as we could know them.
No requirements of home, landing lights, fridge
It is all bed and larder. Life and matter.
Knowledge.