Are We Still Here?

Between the woodpile and the window

a line of small black ants is moving,

some to the north, some to the south.

Their constant industry is admirable,

as are their manners when they pause

in meeting to exchange a touch.

I must have brought their home inside

for fuel, heating my small house.

And if it burned I too would move

along all points of the compass rose,

touching my neighbors on the path.