Ants

On the cusp of evening the ants explore the surface of the table. Some of them sprout wings, of a sudden, taking off unsteadily to mingle with the midges. I don’t know what the other ants are looking for. Not food. I’m sure of that. I haven’t dined at this table for weeks.

Unseen forces disturb the leaves of the neighbouring oak. Bees continue their persistent labour among fading hawthorn blossoms. The oak is a giant benefactor. I imagine the jackdaws will return to nest soon. Perhaps they are snuggled up inside her already. I wonder too what other creatures have made their homes within these ancient limbs.

The gentlest of Southerlies cools the skin. It’s welcome. Earlier I lost my patience in the heat; with a wasp, an enamel bowl and my soul. I was trying too hard to achieve stuff. Then I realised my urgent error and slowed down.

We all rotate with the clock around the sun. Its heat is benign now but its rays throw golden shafts through the branches. A blowsy wasp interrogates sugary leftovers around my mouth. I feel its vibrations, feel too the tiniest primordial terror spread through my face. I waft it away. Silly old wasp. It meanders over to my drink, so I place a tobacco pouch atop its damp head.

Near behind an electric stove ticks and rattles. It’s busy with my supper. 

There is something hazy and drunken about all of this. Drunken in the waning heat, with the ink scratching the soft pages at ease. 

And all is well.