In the cornflakes,
or in the ruins behind the house
where old chairs are
sinking into the ground
like Civil War tombstones,
and nobody plays on the swing set.
I have breakfast by the window
and think about rubies,
my grandmother's birthstone,
about sunlight passing through
the red glass paperweights
that never filled this windowsill.
Across my feet, a small ant carries
a Rice Krispie, origin unknown.
We don't have that cereal in the cabinet.
Along comes a second ant,
carrying another Rice Krispie.
This is a good way to start the day,
like Jane Goodall, in the wild,
waiting for another species
to make contact, except I am
in a small town, lucky enough to notice
the tail end of a tiny expedition.