I don’t usually see its kind around these parts. Most years I’m in my car, swerving to avoid these tiny crawling rugs in a foolish game of road roulette way off where the flat fields of harvested corn and beans have blown their covers. However dangerous the mission, they are determined to carry the weather forecast out there for us. You know the drill — the wider the middle stripe, the milder the winter.
But in my mind, there are always signs that don’t fit. What if there is no stripe! What if they’re all the same color! Is that the thinnest stripe, the widest stripe or worse than a stripe? Holy wooly mammoth, what if it means an ice age? Or a meltdown? How many degrees of misery are predicted per millimeter?
Alas, there is no answer when I ask aloud these questions and pile on all of life’s mysteries while I’m at it. The wooly worm is only the messenger.