Wye River seems devoid of ants, at
least not to be seen post-fire, except in the sparking mind. There are tunnels
of industrial noise where hardhat ants work unsparingly, along unlit chambers
and up again. Ants large as hills climb down into the valley, carting off
houses like sugar cubes on their backs. Burnt-out trees transform into ants
scrambling for road space, skirting driftwood ocean. Dystopian ants stream up
out of root systems slithering like snakes, chattering like parrots. Micro-ants
move in waves of sliding hillside soil. Ants in groups could be humans walking
around the charred landscapes of April.
No comments:
Post a Comment