On the terrace, I watch the moon get swallowed and then spat out, passing through the belly of invisible clouds. It’s late and the sky is black.

Overhead, a plane roars, briefly drowning out the drone of crickets. The wind stirs, making several twigs snap.

Inside, ants surround the sink, descending on crumbs I forgot to clean up. Their perceptivity fascinates me, but I am tired of murdering tiny creatures.

I do not understand this place – the moon, the crickets, the ants: acting on impulse, driven by instinct. Subject to the whim of emotion, ruled by my own dark tides: I covet their simple lives.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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