Picnic

I look out the highest window of a skyscraper to see miniature cars and people scurrying below, ants marching to the last picnic of the year. 

Look at them go. 

From here, I can see there is no picnic. Only red lights, indigestion, and dented fenders. 

I would rather believe in picnics. I would rather be an ant, determined to carry that big peanut butter and banana sandwich home. 

All by myself.

published in Write Under the Moon