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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