The hill of dirt is a volcano of small spackles of red lava,

The sting is a fresh memory of all who have experienced the burn,

The pain is still fresh

The bitter anger still prominent.

Water bottles are grabbed.

Shoes are laced.

Matches are taken as chalk to the sidewalk.

        The small specks of red scuttle.

Shovels are retrieved from arsenals,

Water-balloons are wielded like grenades,

Zippers are unzipped and urine becomes the acid of the skies.

                        The small specks of red scuttle.

Hate is at the forefront

Anger a close runner up.

Torture is contemplated

Demise is eminent.

                        The small specks of red scuttle right into our unflinching hands.

                        The small specks of red scuttle knowing not what comes

                        The small specks of red rightly earned this.

 

We gather food for the ones we love

We protect our neighbors from those who intend to harm.

We love all who are born and mourn all who are lost.

We cherish our size because love is inversely proportional in our eyes.

We do not hunt but gather so as not to cause harm to others.

We scuttle.

The sun is beautiful and the rain—though dangerous—is welcome

Crumbs are cherished

The small are strong

We scuttle.

The giants come wielding items of pain and suffereing

The giants need more love

The giants should be small

So they can see the beauty in the large.

And we scuttle.