The Marching Line

I ducked into the cool shadow under the wooden bench. Along the edge of a weathered timber, a steady line of tiny black ants was moving in single file. I paused, tilting my head low against the grain. They carried pale specks across rough ridges in the wood. I leaned forward on my stiff front paws to watch. One paused, tapping the air toward my snout, then scrambled ahead to catch up. I stayed quiet at the rim of their path until the last one vanished into a crack filled with moss.