The nosy dib, grub, moil

of a prickly neighbour

has razed another anthill,

routing the troops – a spill

of broken rosaries that soon

rethread and reconnoitre to rebuild,

with instinct, the overseer,

directing the jet-black trickle’s

spurt-stop-start.

It’s an old film’s jerky flow,

this swapline of kiss:

one pheromone-tracking,

flickering unit of formic work,

that scoops and carries and stacks.

Team spirit is their religion,

Many anticipating One,

the Tao of all such tiny mindful toil.