What

Something about the way ants move
Makes them always seem exploring—

Pan miners, scientists, poets,
Little drunks who’ve lost their wallets.

At least three species race along
This lake’s rocky shores in summer,

Attending to all sorts of tasks
Among the washed up logs and sticks,

And they all look urgent, but not like
People rushing to work, not like

The thoroughly foraging bees—
More like they’re looking for something,

Maybe unsure of what it is,
Like the whole shore needs exploring,

The way the universe explores
Every last possibility

But—being creatures, being lives—
Without the offhand luxury

Of changing rates of exploring,
Exploring all possible rates

Of exploring that the cosmos
Savors. Every ant’s behavior

Seems paced at the same frantic speed.
Something needs to be found, something

That is absolutely crucial,
But we’re all running out of time.