After days of heavy rain,
an ant hill blooms
in the grass. Their underground
channels submerged,
the worker ants surface
to scale the dune
built on spiky green blades
of Bermuda. Late afternoon
they patrol the peak.
Like copper flecks, the ants shine
as I dot the hill with bait,
sprinkle granules like sugar crystals
onto the mountain. They carry
toxins back to the colony,
spread poison through tunnels
and kill the queen.
Survivors clear the hill
of the dead, stack remains
into a midden then scatter.
With my shovel, I level the mound,
mix residue into the grass.
Bodies clumped, the mass shrivels
in the sun, but one ant flickers
on top of the heap.
Watching it there, I wonder
how I’ll leave
the world. After the toil,
the ant still shimmers.
Its thorax glints in the sunlight—
one solitary spark.
