A narrow line of ants,
Embarking on a journey,
To find a new home,
They must face this mortal peril.
We hope they may all succeed,
But on the way some must drop off.
It begins simply with soil,
Splitting the line into four at each pebble.
Some go left, others go right,
A quarter travel over, the adventurous go under,
Meeting again where it ends,
Falling in line seamlessly,
Following each other’s footsteps.
Outsiders may wonder,
As to how the first one decides where to go,
Weaving around even non-existent obstacles,
Crafting a story on small highways,
And even smaller back roads.
In its mission for survival,
It strives to reach higher ground.
Spiraling around the stem of a plant,
From leaf stalk to leaf it travels,
Then to the next,
A frozen ocean,
Holding only delicate legs,
Giving way beneath the slightest pressure.
Not long before,
They reach a new terrain,
Flowers blooming in different states,
Some closed, together, mountain ranges,
Others lower, flattened, valleys through which
Our river of ants must flow.
Once this is crossed, all is conquered,
They need not climb another mountain,
Need not stumble as cracks form at sea.
Bright color, blinding,
To the beat of birds chirping above,
A thing of danger,
A thing of beauty,
In this valley of flowers.