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.