Garbage day. The collectors of refuse often leave the cans turned upside-down, especially in the rain. I prefer this to the days when they toss them carelessly on their sides. On those occasions they roll into the street or wander down the way, rolling with the wind. On this morning I find the dulled silver pail upright, lid alongside.
A small assembly of maggots roil round the bottom, bred I assume in some piece of decayed food.
I turn the can over onto the edge of the road and tap the bottom. The tiny creatures writhe on the pavement. On a sunnier day their white flesh might quickly bake and become one with the road, but the cloud cover offers some protection. I restore the can to its regular place.
I check on them a little later. The curb proves too steep for them to climb, though they try and roll. Their Sisyphean attempts to reach the grass spread them over vast inches along the edge of the street.
When I return again, I notice a gathering of those tiny ants, ants who could hang out on a punctuation mark. They have marshaled their forces and surround each maggot. These twist and turn and try to buck the ants. I wonder if some larger, more formidable formicidae will take over the operation. Of course, the maggots may be too tiny and beneath the notice of them.
By the end of the afternoon, the ants have carried away or consumed the bodies, erasing all trace of the maggots' existence.