Formicidae
My words have reason to be sullen.
They poke around like ants
in the blown leaves, unable to run.
They drag their thoraxes over the loam
crying how thin the daylight has become
and how debauched the queen. But then
in the routine static of feelers struck
on feelers, comes news of a dead beetle.
They smell the iridescent corpse
shimmering green and gold against
the pale lichen, and they move
toward it, finding the trail.