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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 1, March 2015


Bob Lucky
Jubail, Saudi Arabia

The Limits of Omnipotence

I like to watch ants. I don't know much about them except for sizes and colors, but they're easier to watch than butterflies, who always move just when you think you'll have a moment to appreciate them, and bees are so frantic they give me anxiety. I'm on the patio now, wrapped in a shawl trying to break a fever. There's a small ant carrying the carcass of an ant twice his size. He stumbles around like a drunk for a while, letting the breeze shove him one way and then another. He seems lost. After a few laps around the hibachi, and a couple of pirouettes, one in which he lifts the carcass as if he were a figure skater, he strikes out for the far end of the patio. I'm referring to the ant as he because I've observed a specific male trait: he doesn't stop to ask any of the other ants for directions. About two yards out, he has doubts and starts doing circles again before returning half way to me and then turning back around again. I can see he's getting tired. He sets the carcass down, circles it a few times, and then lifts it once again. I feel for this ant. I want to help him. He may be a homicidal, cannibalistic little bugger or a grieving relative looking for the ant graveyard, but he's determined. I'm useless. Even if like some benevolent god I picked him up, I wouldn't know where to put him down.

day moon
trying to shoo a fly
off my teacup



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