Were I suddenly an ant, I would wander:
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a miniature Magellan among the waving green grass,
and careful, mind you, to avoid the Wrong Ant Hill.
I'd perch atop a delicate Bluebell and wonder at everything;
watch little bugs give chase, like squirrels, flirting within proud
dandelion puffs while kicking up plumes of feathery seeds.
The delicate seat would quickly feel my weight and, bending to the ground,
coax me to instead climb the heights of a mighty Dhalia, so
I could revel (on my back) at the sky from within the flower's pearly, graceful
*some say dhalias looks like brilliant stained-glass stories, but I digress.
I'd pry myself from the dhalia's clutches to witness a panoramic symphony;
a quiet melody to imbibe - miniature colors and babbling earthen creatures and
warm sun and wind and water that blankets all who are down low.
And then - poof! - once again tall, forcibly removed from my dream, I realize
all the small stuff is still there, recognizable if I'm quiet and lie on my back in crunchy leaves or snow
and consider nothing but the stillness and rough gracefulness of the ground that embraces.
-=[ Blank this intentional space! ]=-