An ant steps on the page I’m writing on,
looks about, pauses carelessly, like a
practiced actor in a comedy.
It doesn’t seem to know where it is,
or how it got there, but is trying
to make the best of it.
At times it seems to be shadowing my
pen, like a critic; at others it seems
to be guiding my hand.
As the midnight stars wester, the ant
and my poem race to the
bottom of the page.