I look like an ant—red as fire
or one of those grease ants you might crush
with your finger as it marches
across the kitchen counter insignificant
in catastrophes of my own choosing
(dear god—not yours) as sentient
as all wildlife the way I head for my burrow
at the first orange glow of the lowering sun
imagine how many gray-green needles
a storm might shake from a nearby fir tree
indistinguishable from a host of others
other trees other needles
when I scrape a bent key into my locked front door
and swear under my breath if the door sticks
are you nearby unseen at that very instant
or are you light-years away creating another huge bang?
*title from Maggie Smith’s “This Human Life”