At the soles of passing shoes,
on the road no one travels,
the place ants have invented
a specific feeler wave: Rock Land.
It isn’t all bad, the fixed monotony
of the day, shuffling from place
to place with a bit of leaf fragment,
granules of undigested sugar,
a fallen comrade’s body.
A simple sexless society; exist
to work for the collective, ensure
the survival of the commune.
Marxis, or a greater monastic order?
One scampers over scaled-down
mountains, going around those
that seem too much effort
for a quick run, almost mindlessly
(maybe they’re evolved beyond minds).
