Us Bugs

Us Bugs

Swing low said the ant.

A time that is full of bread crumbs

My antennae swell with delight at the sounds of a picnic

With red and with checkered tablecloths

Children see me only small

As if I had fallen carelessly onto their miniature laps

But who are you calling miniature?

It surely isn't the sets of swing that drop my meals

My ants call my name . . . we all have one you know

My family of thousand calls me to dinner in a frenzied motion

Of legs and sweat. You ask, do we sweat?

We never stop. Always engaged unlike those clothed giants

That hoplessly stare at screens of nothing,

Which in turn creates a world of nothing

There is hope for the generation of the ants

-David Muir McEntire

June 06, 1995