The Inaccessible Queen

Sept 11 2011

This was the season of anthills.

As if overnight,

great monuments of sand

several feet in diameter.

Like pyramids, ziggurats

lost cities,

that layer by layer

have risen above

more ancient ones.

I am impressed by the industry.

By the plan, when there is none,

each automaton ant

acting on its simple order.

Yet every grain of sand, uniform.

The smooth symmetrical surface,

as if rounded down

by unseen hands.

Black lines of ants, racing to and fro

in a frenzy

of incomprehensible purpose.

Our modest temperate version

of African termites,

who fashion giant mounds

as big as a man,

as idiosyncratic

as avant-garde art.

Tiny insects

that alter the landscape,

leave tell-tale remains

of their brief existence

some future civilization

will ponder on.

Or not.

Because anthills are taking over my lawn.

So one-by-one, I kick them down,

watch worker ants scatter

soldiers, scurry into action,

I can just imagine

glaring up at me.

Squirming larvae

abandoned,

the inaccessible Queen.

Destruction comes

as sudden as an asteroid

the hundred year flood,

the judgement of a God

who is quick to anger.

As philosopher ants

consider the nature of evil

free will

dumb luck.

Next day, to my surprise, the mound is up

as big as it was.

Tiny black ants

frantically bustling,

chemical instructions

impelling them.

Slender antennae touch the air

sampling, seeking,

bodies brush, and greet.

As anthills rise, generations succeed;

oblivious to me.