In 2021 the EPA released a report stating that heavy precipitation is an indicator of climate change. Tracking rainfall from 1910 to 2020, they wrote “In recent years, a larger percentage of precipitation has come in the form of intense single-day events.” Rising temperatures amplify Earth’s water cycle, leading to intense rain, storms, and flooding. The National Climate Assessment affirmed this fact, noting that rainfall is more frequent and severe than in prior decades, as evident in the 2021 Hurricane Ida, where 3.15 inches of rain occurred in just one hour.
It’s March and the trees have started to blossom. Between Syracuse’s cold winter and juxtaposing sunshine-filled days, the trees have found a way to flourish. The weather is always seemingly unpredictable. Two days ago there were no clouds in sight, but yesterday it rained. Last night I could hear the rain hitting the roof of my apartment. The street lamps illuminated the slick road and each drop of rain. The sound helped me fall asleep – there’s something relaxing about the pitter-patter that puts me at ease. Today the rain has transitioned from a soft pitter-patter to, what some might say, is a cats-and-dogs rainfall. I don’t like when it pours, especially when I have to go outside. But, alas, my Earth Science lecture awaits me, so I put on my rainy-day shoes and head to class.
As I walk I notice dozens of worms scattered along the sidewalk, street, and in puddles. I wonder if any of the worms are hidden in the lush grass, or if they’re all flooded onto the concrete. The blossoming trees have lost some of their leaves. Apparently certain species of worms can suffocate if the soil they live in becomes too soaked, so they move to the surface to avoid death.1 Some of them are large and others are peewees. Nevertheless, they are noticeable, and I am careful to avoid stepping on them. This is not a rare sight, you’ll notice this after it rains. One, two, three, four… Twenty-three worms within 50 steps. Some of them are slowly inching (or centimeter-ing) aimlessly on the pavement. Others are completely pulverized, their bodies saturated with rain and their guts spilled. I wonder if anyone else notices the worms.
- Ironically, worms need to stay moist to survive, and being above ground on any normal sunny day would cause them to dry out and die. Perhaps even more ironic, worms move to the surface when it rains because the sounds and vibrations of the rain against the earth’s surface are similar to those of moles, but this often leads to them being stepped on or eaten by birds.
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On my way to class, I spot a large, long worm smack in the middle of the sidewalk. I’m fairly certain the worm will be crushed eventually. It just keeps moving towards foot-traffic areas. I find a stick and try to scoop it up, but it keeps recoiling, jerking its body around. It’s freaking me out. Every time it recoils, it falls off the stick. I try three more times, but I give up.
On my way back from class, I see the worm, but this time its body has been flattened and it’s no longer moving. It looks saturated with water, its once-pink body turning a faded white. I feel bad.
In 1988, climate scientist James Hansen testified in a groundbreaking Senate hearing alerting the world of the consequences and hazards of climate change. His testimony made him one of the most prominent climate scientists and helped raise public awareness of the threats of global warming. Increasing temperatures, natural disasters, rainfall, drought, extreme heat, floods, and poorer health will eventually destroy all life on earth unless we do something about it now, he warned.
Today it’s sunny and the puddles and sidewalks have dried up. The blossoming trees with their pink buds are beautiful – they look completely different in the sun than in the dreary rain. By the end of the day, once all the moisture has evaporated, the carcasses of dried-up worms who never made it back to their homes (or were stepped on) are strewn about. The baby leaves that were ripped off the trees, now also on the concrete, have dried under the sun. The faded pink leaves lay with the dead worms. I imagine stepping on a worm feels like stepping on a chip. Crackle and crunch. Once trying to survive a flood, they’ve now died from the sun and lack of moisture. Some of them now look like sticks, burnt from the drought they’ve experienced, contorted in unnatural positions, no longer recognizable.
I wish I could have saved them.
In 2022 the United Nations reported that climate disasters triggered people, the majority from the Global South, to flee their homes, with a record 32.6 million displaced. Though James Hansen warned of global warming’s effect on humans and nonhumans if nations continued to value profit over people 35 years ago, little was done to prevent imminent disaster. In 2022 the oil and gas industry in the United States earned $332.9 billion, a $21.7 billion increase since 2021. Now climate change is predicted to displace 1.2 billion people by 2050, most of whom are people of color, Indigenous, women, poor, marginalized, and have historically contributed the least to emissions. Between 2030 and 2050, 250,000 people are estimated to die each year due to climate change-related disasters and disease.
The worms too will be flooded out of the soil, left out to dry and burn.
“Do worms feel pain?” I type into Safari. A 1979 New York Times article pops up and states that worms produce the same pain and pleasure chemicals that are found in human brains, enkephalins and beta-endorphins. The chemicals are found in the “earthworm’s equivalent of a brain.”
The final line in the article is “Man is not as distant from the earthworm as he believed.”