The pitter patter of little ant feet.

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I had a writing friend. Once. The right person at the right time.

Then?

They vanished.

I miss my writing buddy.

If they were here?

I'd ask them this question.



Because - tonight?

I'm on my knees looking for answers.


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"Wave goodbye.
Wish me well."

But don't let go.


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I've met people who don't look much past their next step.
They honestly don't care. Their curiosity is miniscule.

My pups have more interest in the nature of this world.


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The sound of ants on aluminum foil is like the sound of a rain shower on a tin roof.
Only quieter.

Tiny.

Which makes sense because an ant's foot is so very small compared to a raindrop.

But there are six of them so it's the sound of a rain shower on a tin roof.
Only quieter.
And with more pitter patters.








"The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment."





I knew a fella who was so intent on making me see the reality of the world that he forgot that sometimes the real of the world is what we can only imagine.




Because well it couldn't be real if it weren't unhappy.




Good to know.

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