HUNTERS

(For Ben, I guess)

by Lee Kirk

You spoke of frosted early hours

spent sitting in the blind, your rifle

ready on your knees, too many problems

slung across your back. Once or twice

bushes stirred -- you almost turned,

then gave the sound to wind.

Later, walking back to your truck

with no deer seen, you found

their hoofprints bedded in the tracks

of your tires. So much for the blind!

I have hunted, too, but differently --

hours spent sprawled on the porch

at the old house, my chin pressed close

to rotting wood, watching lines of ants

transporting termite larvae.

(How I cheered them on!)

One ragged gully between two boards

impeded them; I flung across a

matchstick bridge. With no acid trail

to follow, they perceived only obstacle;

floundered there until I took it back.

Hunting for knowledge, I learned

one thing: You cannot educate an ant.

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