The Ant

I skittered around what remains of my leaf vessel, grabbing the portion of gunwale that folded under the onslaught of raindrops and dipped into the serpentine currents. To the giants I realize this isn’t much of a sight, especially given the way they pounce on the crinkly brown leaves (although these aren’t great for boat making so I can’t be upset). They should know the rustling of tree leaves are real ly ant screams, or at least mine on the days I dropped a leaf. Disrupting a line of marching ants leads to slim dinner pickings. Those days I willed myself to imagine the nest’s dinner bell, but instead the sloshy thuds of gelatinous leftovers entered my chamber.

Work halted with the scent of a storm. No new leaves were picked and those holding one, poised like a contortionist, rushed for the nest. The orderly line then became the calvary rush with leaves as their banners. I hung back throughout the jostling to occupy moments outside the nest alone, bundled with the smell and humidity of rain. It felt something like a soaked sponge sweater until the chill ruffled the leaves.

Raindrops were an insatiable source of mystery for me. Every time it rained, I became absorbed in the raindrop’s distortion, although I physically dodged the wet falling stars. Each packet of liquid clung together and I always wondered how the structure sustained itself during its descent. The end flared and peeled off and yet what remained of its globular mass still had enough force to knock the wind from me. When it became pointless to dodge these meteors, I waited to be struck and suspended. It was like a cradle, and each time I swung in those arms I found it harder to return to the dusty and prickly terrain of the borough. The droplets pressurized my exoskeleton and strung out my limbs, expanding my little body to float in the space.

Eventually I had to flail to the surface for air, piercing the tension so that the womb broke. Without its support, I came crashing back to the tree, remnants of the drop sliding off my antenna. I made sure to squeegee my legs before returning to the nest, always claiming I’d gotten caught in the storm, huddled in the crevice of a woodpecker’s drilling.

I hightailed it with this baby fiddle-leaf fig appendage just last night while everyone slept. The scent of rain electrified my feelers and extinguished my hesitations. I tripped over a sleeping aphid and almost tore my leaf in the scuffle of limbs. It must have been looking for food but resorted to a nap when the interlocking tunnels got it nowhere. The leaf had held out until saturation willed it to sink to the bottom of the currents or to be slurped into a passing storm drain. With my fascina tion for water, drowning would be a fitting death.

I thought of grabbing hold of my vessel and clinging to the ragged cliff to my right, the color of fresh inner bark. Surely though my first pair of legs would pop from their sockets and the torrents would remain indifferent to me. Only then my body would be a useless totem of beets with four legs.

Caught in the swirls and arches and overcome by the centripetal forces, I waved my white flag, sprawling in the leaf’s center. The spinning created images that reminded me of my raindrop escape pod. How all the colors slurred together and the motion left my balance confused and weightless. When the tides began to slow, the pictures buckled and smeared across my vision while my head caught up to the water’s speed. My fig leaf was tattered and a chunk of the bow had been whisked away.

Coasting on my limp green raft down the storm’s trickling trace, I basked in the rainbow rays. When my thorax began to steam, I dipped an antenna into the calm threads of corn syrup water, just as you might stick your foot out from under the covers

I found it rather dazzling in the post storm sunshine.