I'm still enough that
the ants have forgotten I'm here.
They traverse atop foot
and leg and arm on their way
to constructing the rooms
and tunnels of home. Some carry
blades of grass, flickering against
the side of my bootsole, accidentally
leveled across their path.
And with automatic inclination,
they reorient themselves, doggedly
in pursuit of the silent creation of their world.
From my vantage in the clouds
they are but persistent and reflexive
in maneuvers--silent longing
in a world of noiseless expansion.
I withdraw my foot and their
passage resumes.
For what are my movements but the
thoughtless intrusions into the unseen day?