A man stands at the edge
of a river that appeared seemingly
overnight. However sourceless,
it moves east to west
following the downward slant
of concrete along the walking path.
The ants are living on borrowed time,
their dry refuge disappears into the river,
scraps of lives are swept downstream
and pour out into a wide field, green
and unfathomable, depthless.
A hand on his robed hip says I thought
this might happen. There is yet more work
left to be done.
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