The ants are those who seek the bric-a-brac
Of evidence
And run it through the ringer, forth and back,
In search of sense.
Ants like to gather reams of information
And neatly fence
These finds in careful graphs of their creation.
With scatter plots,
Venn diagrams, and Power Point presentation,
They call the shots
On showing solid things that are the case,
And also what’s
Improbable, or would be out of place
Amidst their stack
Of knowledge, which they work so hard to trace.
Contrariwise, the spiders spin their minds
In planned designs,
Inventing miracles of many kinds
With tiny twines
Which gradually accumulate to make
A land of lines.
They never tire, or ever take a break
From making maps.
It seems a thankless task they undertake
And yet perhaps
Sunlight on morning dew may lure some klutz
To try their traps
And thereby wriggle from the usual ruts.
Yes, yes, it binds,
The bees elect to forge a middle course.
Fierce wanderlust
Wings them to anthers, pollen towers: the source
Of precious dust,
Which they convert to deck their citadels
With waxy crust.
Hexagonal, their labyrinth of cells
Encloses sweet
Effusions, while sheer industry impels
A moving feat:
The manufacture of topography,
On which they meet,
Enjoy their lives and, daily, by degree,
Must reinforce.
It is a brilliant thing to be, a bee.