Ants push god aside, emerging from their many tunnels
in what we term a “colony” while they don’t—taking umbrage,
though having the grace to keep to their purpose, concomitant
with god emergent manifold and compelled across interlinked
tunnels with those mouths out of a constellation of gravel.
Over the hill, many different ant IDs cross lines of forage,
and traces of godly pheromones paint the pictures many of us
externals don’t see with our constrained sense of art. But we
pause to see the meat-ant carrying a moth carcass
eight times its weight and more again if comparing dimensions.
The smallest ants, with their long trails and separated
nests still keeping in contact, are not overwhelmed or squeezed
letting gods in or out, and communicate with more than antennae—
their whole being going into constant exchange. Rubbing. They are not
a machine, or parts of a machine, and are shamed by our definitions.
Odes breaking out of bare ground where ants are most intense, sending
their spokes out, cutting through and wearing down through mass
repetition, are not god speaking through ants, but god speaking
as gods with ants, gathering information for use outside the pressing
matter of the collective. God doesn’t favor the queen. All ants are godly.
Deterring ants from extending into our comfort zone, our dwelling,
is not a prayer-act, yet has characteristics of prayer as give-and-take. No
harm done, we want back our sense of having done the right thing,
the selfishness of worship. Blue butterfly passing over green-headed ant,
wasp hovering over bull ant—these are odes, but not the only odes.
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