Ants in the anthill, we feel the quake
of giant footfalls, cloven hooves
and rubber tread approaching, yet
stick to the business of our survival
unabashed, sorting the wild grain
packed by caravans for winter’s cold.
Our one mind is not cluttered
with news beyond our borders,
the fallen oak and swollen creek—
of all the peripheral shenanigans
delegated to orators and generals,
to pundits and playwrights busy
with dramatic scripts to entertain
themselves. We serve another purpose
dedicated to feeding ourselves.