It’s fall. I know this because
the ants have stopped coming into my kitchen.
No more earnest invaders case the joint for spills and spatters
as they hatch a plot to drive me mad.
late in the game,
The ants have marched off
to wherever it is that ants go for winter.
Dead, or dormant, I know not, and do not care.
Yet I imagine them…
gathered deep in the earth…
their ant faces wrinkled and heavy with beard:
and each of them,
recalling kitchen glory days.
The melted popsicle puddles.
The cookie crumbs.
And all the bright sunshine