Ants in Death Valley

Chris Crittenden

ants trickle
over sizzling valley flesh,
convoys in jagged lines,
a trident of chitin marauding.

they are desert’s gore:
its blood-thirst and spilt blood.
all else is atomized:
fossils of mountains
smashed into corpuscles,
a barren kingdom
of malleable waves.

from blurry heat
the ants pluck prizes,
grains larger than amoebas
yet much more meaningless.
blip stacks upon blip
until a monument grows,
proportionately more awesome
than Giza.

but no one lauds the ants’ prowess.
their achievements
stretch into tasty chaos,
licked by hydras of wind.