Running mud cracks is a joy to ants
though their enthusiasm outpaces them–
a sudden party of the detained
racing though the low desert.
I like how they crunch underfoot,
the plates of dry desert mud,
the damp stoneware of oases,
each odd one and polygon defined by breaking.
Why disturb them, really?
their graceful concavity,
their edges curled in sleep,
colored lavender and rose before sunrise.
Why destroy the pleasure of social insects,
just to hear the crush and crush
of imprints under my feet?
By the grace of ants’ happiness
and the moonlight on supple tiles of mud,
I walk dunes smoothed by night air.
Dunes, a desert body
where we drink and drink
water distilled on a creosote leaf,
a desert communion, let live.