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.