The smallest creatures, ants and such, work intently as they go about their business
Observing them, as they move through the blades of green and patches of brown soil, they seem to instinctively know their purpose.
They take no notice of my presence; except to repair the damage done to their world by my clumsy stride.
They do not look up but rather proceed on with their lives undistracted and unconcerned with mankind.
What then is man to the natural world other than an inconvenience.
A natural disaster to be dealt with, overcome, and forgotten
Written by Mark R. Day 6/8/15. Copyright by Mark R. Day 6/8/15, all rights reserved.
This is the final poem written at the Old City Cemetery in Lynchburg on June 8th 2015. It was inspired by the little black ants, which were busily working away beneath my legs as, I sat on the hilside in the bright sunshine.