Step by Step

By Cindion Huang ’25

In a quiet study overlooking
the umber leaves of fall, a tiny ant appeared
on a vast, amber table of knowledge
where books pile tall.
Unannounced — like ants often do --
it crawls along the surface of the
yellow and brown veins of wood,
like a tiny sailboat, silently stood
on the waves of the Pacific.
How much force of the universe does it take
for an ant to incessantly crawl down what
seems like a meaningless trail?
I watched as it maneuvers its thin,
nearly nonexistent legs, step by step,
to the edge of the table, the other side.
Step by step, I think of mankind:
our modernized humanity, a world where we,
like the ants, ceaselessly,
helplessly crawl towards
the end of our lives,
the constant days and nights --
the other side.
I poured my gaze, again, onto the vast,
amber table of knowledge,
only to find that the ant has quietly
vanished — like ants often do --
a sunken sailboat amidst
an endless blue.