#459
Raid
The black ant waved his feelers
At all the signs of death--
Bodies stretched out on the ground,
Bodies piled up all around--
He stopped and held his breath.
Ant lungs are nonexistent;
The air just comes and goes,
Like fog on winter mornings,
Or turtles lacking toes.
With signs of death undoing
So many of his kind,
The black ant turned and fled the field,
Leaving the bait behind.