trail slate
The afternoon steams a carpet of clouds;
the round machete pokes perpetually
as though it’s testing their soft textures.
Among these hot temperatures,
an army of ants sets its plans
to gather at a tree's brown elbow.
Before their trip, they lick and pick
for any rations they can carry,
looking on the wide green mat
that hides the roots and seeds.
Their footprints are scattered in rows;
a formation of Arabic networks.
The grass wears no layer of awareness.
Perhaps if the sun were in its face,
it would’ve burned the silent indifference.
Now, these red people tread elsewhere.
Their heads are as narrow as the path
they’re heading toward, thirsty with curiosity,
yet their minds collect more sources
contrary to the things on their backs.
Their visions thrive over time.
They march past a tree with a beehive,
their hearts have no desire to lurk there.
Observations shift like a shadow,
changing under a very cool shade—
inch by inch, from side to side.
In the far distance, the images
they render seem to singe
the air’s dense horizontal by the hour.
Melting everything in its path—
the sun is a merciless god.
Despite these wavering illusions,
they advance to their destination,
ignoring the heavy lust for water.
Meanwhile, a lady tends to her garden
and spots a moving dark red line
being altered by the heat of day,
She misconstrues the ants passing by.
And they project their glimpses
as though they witnessed a staring alien.
She slightly turns her face in great awe.
Watery eyes swim in sheer confusion,
she slowly walks to her front porch
to sit and reflect on the sudden insects.
The ants fix their lenses and proceed.
They finally meet their awaited tree,
they quickly crawl up to its trunk,
running to its branches and gathering
leaves for their beds and burrows.
Biting its long arms in sections,
they suck its sap and relax their backs.
4/26/26
foggy wind
forest solar
severe willow