Warlike ants
I recall black strings across the ground, vulture-eyes-overhead-reconnoitring. Finding out the stream of life and invent the way to rend it by reiterate assaults from the shining morning to the bleeding dusk. My cousin and I, both ten, soldiers of a useless war, waged in response of the challenge by the most numerous beings that proliferated just where we demanded to be the only regulators over the creation. Once we attacked native villages in the weeds and, scouts of a colonial army, swept out their circular camps. We slaughtered either red ants or redskins. We looked at either red antennas or squashed and black abdomens drying up under the young sun of a Texan spring or that unremitting one of an African summer. We beat the ground with our indexes, and reckoned our daily deceases by the pain of pattering on the gravels. In the evening, we shook hands with a turgid finger, both agreed on postponing the today’s last assault to tomorrow’s first.
