DOT... LETTER... WORD...
The ants carry seeds in wavering lines,
They read the pheromone trail, a suffuse
Beautiful script across the sacred
Soil, which surrounds the roots of the red spruce,
It grows as it grows, there is no hint
Of self-reflection, of separation
From the sky, from the sun,
The crickets sing their stridulation.
Yaacov David Shulman