feeling lonely and
alone
on a hot summer afternoon,
no one to play with
or talk to
nothing I know to do–
I sat on the walkway
beside the Larson’s house
next door; ants began to
come up out of cracks
and the little volcano-shaped dirt
piles, a vast horde writhing
on the plain of the walkway
as other ants
with wings
flew in out of the
blue sky and
a battle began,
squadrons of winged ants
attacking the ground forces
a ferocious struggle
like Hastings or Waterloo
the Queen of the wing-less
crew rolled over
her winged foe,
the dead piled up
the battle raged
the afternoon slid into
shadow;
I did not hear my grandmother
call me in to
supper.