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Ants scurry about, sometimes quickly, sometimes not. Often in orderly fashion, but not always.
They almost always seem to be busy. Doing something. It’s as if they know their lives are finite, and they hasten so as to accomplish something in the time they have left.
Sometimes they stop, and appear motionless. A casual observer might wonder what they are doing. They might perk up their antennae. Little twitches might give them away.
Sometimes they engage in teamwork, as toward a common goal. At times they may act in sacrificial manner, giving up the individual for the greater good of the colony.
Across small bodies of water, some ants allow themselves to be walked on by other ants. They form the base of the pontoon or bridge. The ones on the bottom get their feet wet so that others may not.
When, likely a long time ago, an ant first walked vertically, expanding its prior two-dimensional world into three dimensions, the rest of the ant colony may have applauded. Put their feet together and maybe went wild with joy.
Perhaps they did a ant jig. Or danced. Then, one by one, they, too, tried to leave the horizontal in favor of the vertical.
What if it didn’t work? What if they fell?
