At first glance I can barely spot them,
Tiny dots with six legs each,
Too small for “swarm” to sound appropriate.
Twice a year, spring and fall,
They hunt for food I cannot see
And find it near my kitchen sink.
Because I care, I feel a twinge of guilt
When I mash them with my fingers;
So instead I spray them with some Windex,
Thinking to my rueful self
It is a clean death for these ants
And worthy of our microscopic war.
©2021 John I. Blair, 5/17/2021