Along the endless dusty path
The ants moved in caravan, one after another
They did not stray, nor speak of freedom
Only the hush of precision, humility, and obedience
The whole line bowed like reeds in wind
And where the road broke or an obstacle rose
They did not gnaw, nor rage, nor climb the height
But curved around it, smooth and flawless
And when the stream forked into twin threads
Each sought the other, and paths entwined again
Those behind traced the bend without question
On the circular trail with neither start nor end

But one ant, small beneath the weight of sun
Veered from the line, for reasons none could tell
Perhaps it smelled sweetness in the nearby grass
Or dreamed the world wider than the narrow creed
It wandered, briefly bold, just a little off track
But soon the dust turned strange beneath its feet
The wind couldn’t guide it back, the ground no sign
It turned back, frantic, chasing the ghost of a line
Longing for the drumbeat, the comfort of many
And when at last it slipped into the stream
It tore the rhythm, each scrambled to reclaim their place
None turned to greet it, none aligned behind
It paused, turned back to the exile once called home
Out of step, it watched the caravan flow on
Then peeled away, slow and alone
Returning to the soft wilderness of its mistake