a string of black ants
appear on the kitchen counter,
a line
moving against the white
flat surface.
they reach the sugar bowl,
where spoons have spilled
the luxurious sweet crystals
and stop to load up.
there's no talking, no music,
no bickering, just work,
a procession of life staying
alive at all costs.
it would be easy to kill
them all. easy to convince
myself that they're just
insects, invaders and should
be taken out, but I don't.
we are all looking for our
own sugar bowls, working hard
to get there.
I open the window and spill
the sugar down, then carefully
take each one back to from
where they came, then pull
the window tight and shut.
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