Matthew Francis

After Robert Hooke All afternoon a reddish trickle out of the roots of the beech and across the lawn, a sort of  rust that shines and dances. Close up, it proves to be ant, each droplet a horned traveler finicking its way round the crooked geometry of a grass forest. A finger felled in their path rocks them, amazed, back on their haunches. I see them tasting the air for subtle intelligence, till one ventures to scale it, and others follow. They are fidgety subjects to draw. If you sink the feet in glue the rest twists and writhes; kill one, the juices evaporate in seconds, leaving only the shriveled casing. I dunked one in brandy. It struggled till the air rose from its mouth in pinprick bubbles. I let it soak an hour, then dried it, observed the spherical head, the hairlike feelers, the grinning vice of its sideways jaw, the coppery armor plate with its scattered spines. Some draft stirred it then. It rose to all its feet, and set off across the rough miles of desk.