Underneath my apartment building’s spreading oak,
ants busy: dissecting worm into neat segments.
Their path is defined by scent and memory.
Sure, the landscape changes (the contracted land-
scaper changes for his living), but the ants disregard
beheaded peaks and cleaved grass. Ants build new doors,
consume, carry oak leaves over their heads.
Each rain is a flood, and still either they hold
the same close path, or frenzy. It’s as if nothing changed–
because ain’t it always been the same?