It's Still Life

The Cat and The Ants
(Or: A Game of Tag with the Very Small)

The cat is sprawled on the warm stone patio,
one paw extended,
ears forward,
watching tiny black specks
scurry across the surface
like a secret on legs.

“They run,” he whispers to the Old Woman,
“and then they hide.
And then they come back.
And then they run again.
It’s like playing tag
with dust motes
in the sunlight.”

He taps the stone lightly.
The ants freeze.
He holds his breath.
The ants sprint.

“See?
It knows the rules.
It knows I could end it
with one paw.
But I don’t.
Because the game
is the point.
Not the snack.”

He watches another ant emerge,
then another,
a tiny procession of ambition.

“They have agendas, these ones.
Colonies.
Plans.
And yet —

they stop for me.
They dodge for me.
They live their tiny lives
in the shadow of my greatness.

It’s humbling.
For them.”

He bats gently at a pebble,
sending an ant into a panic.
He purrs.

“This is better than television.
Better than string.
Almost better than sardines.
Almost.
Maybe not.”

The Old Woman smiles.
“You know they’ll be gone by autumn.”

The cat doesn’t look up.

“Then I shall treasure them now.
And dream of them in winter.
And wait.
Like a god
who chooses to be gentle.
Occasionally.”

He taps the stone again —
and the game continues.