I traced the line of ants to the flowers they use as cover for their hill. It was a strange graveyard of tiny dead bodies on the orange petals. They traversed the edge line of the swimming pool climbing brick steps into the flower bed itself.
The sky grey blue mottled, a storm decending on the desert without committing yet to rain. Are arks built when such flooding comes so rarely here? Were they covered by the covenant of rainbow doves?
A moldy blackberry buried amid its plump cousins. Big box store clamshell bounty always hides some decay. Juicy purple drops stain fingertips. It seemed only right to offer such sweet nectar to the industrious specks seeking out communal sustenance.
I have slain many of your brothers who have tracked their path across newly shaved skin. I am learning to still my instincts and preserve life. In the meantime, may this offering serve as a bit of good fortune.