Are you a young ant or
a small one?
diligently bent for
somewhere, at any rate.
And do you wonder
about your place under the huge
invisibly starry sky
this July morning —
as I do mine?
The being of an ant
must mark itself,
an alive being, intricately
impelled to run along like that, at least —
with more segmented strange
awarenesses, beyond
this other living creature’s grasp.
Many speak languages
I’ve never learned.
Is your being one
pictograph, seed of a
word, the gateway to
a language nobody speaks?
So none can read this
unsegmented, unsmall,
shared reality.
The radii of power
are focused down and in
on you and me over our
warped little shadows; they
adjust, this midday instant, to
us, moving.
I greet you on your way.
You greet me too, departing?