To Be an Ant

A branch drifts slowly along the surface of the river, rotating in a scriptless pattern—guided by the water moving hurriedly around the stones which nearly protrude above the swirling flow. Vines hang down from the canopy of trees lining the river bank, their tendrils dancing across the water where they touch the glimmering surface. A bird flutters on the far bank, skipping from rock to rock in search of food. There’s a sudden whistling sound from an artillery round, rapidly increasing in volume as it tears through the air in our direction. The bird disappears from view as the explosion of impact violently interrupts mother nature’s late morning. Small twigs rain down as shrapnel from the blast pummels the trees standing guard around us. Even before the sounds of destruction subside, a different bird chirps out her melody—ushering back the tranquility of the forest like an atmospheric liquid that immediately pours in behind the moment of violence, almost erasing it from ever having happened. One last twig falls to the leaf-covered forest floor, the sound of it’s thud serving as the only indication that death just knocked on the door moments ago. The floating branch continues its journey down the river—uninterrupted …

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