A New Poem-for the gypsies who care for such things

A multitude of ants
Marched forward and around
The silent stalks of maize
That rose up from a seemingly parched
Plot of soil.

Headstrong,
They gazed without anticipation,
Walking the well-tred columns
That were laid down before them,
In times unknown.

No will will stoop low
To tell them of the coming rains,
And the coming cold,
The inevitable for changes,
The commonplace apocolypse.

Perhaps it's because they would not listen;
Perhaps it's because they already know.