Anthill, Going Micro

I found the perfect little cottage

at the bottom of an anthill, tall

stands of rye and fescue grass

and dandelions all around. I love

the lanes and alleys of local folks,

all the bugs, beetles and crawlers

passing by, their passage friendly

and quiet, and the gnats, moths and

aerial others gliding low overhead,

tipping wings to us below. Soldier

ants, muscular and always cheerful,

without asking, help me carry rain-

cistern leaves and weed-green bales

of edibles to my cottage, and they

always send me “in-colony” alerts

for “Trampling Giants” approaching –

the tribe to which I once belonged

before my “flea-brained” decision

to sign up for the latest cell-morphing

bio-genetic pilot project. Family and

friends begged me not go “micro” –

that things hadn’t been so bad in Peoria

and elsewhere, and about to get better.

Once a week, just after dark, neighbors

come together, all the burrowers, the land-

leggers and flyers who can make it. Bringing

the campfire glow, the fireflies; the honeyed

grog, the bumble bees; and a song or story,

everyone. One night of song and high spirits,

my ant buddy asked me if human tramplers

trample by accident or malicious intent. My

meek reply, by accident. After the laughter

subsided, ant buddy apologized for setting me

up, for they’d known over generations that

zillions of stomping feet could not have had

such bad aim, statistically – but with exception.