I check the ground for a “safe” spot and sit beside the mound to observe awhile through my macro lens; my hand was too shaky in that squatting position. I wait and wait, camera poised at the precipice of the mountain (I’ve made again from a hill smaller than the mole’s), waiting for a leg or head to surface. Patience. Stillness. These seem to be the dying traits falling out of practice. It is the essence of my passion, ironically, as a hobbyist: I photograph. Only nature. Submersed in it. Currently, I am at an immeasurable distance far away, though only from my back door, a few paces.
For a shot, I extend my permanently-scarred leg (what they did), foot to shin, and position it too close to the enemy camp. Damn fire ants. The savages are known for swarming, stinging, inducing explicative screaming, leaving blisters, pussing, to dry and fade to red. I have wished them all dead. But now, here I am, because I am a lover, and I am drawn to developing my gift of making beauty from pain. I simply observe, get to know the supposed perpetrators, and if I get attacked again, I know it will be deserved for violating their now-known territory. Self-defense is all they have ever been guilty of really…
A stir in the grass beside my hip! What is this? So hyper-focused on my enemies, I saw not the burrowing bee. Did I sit on it, I wonder now. Oh dear, so very sorry!
I keep forgetting, I have not actually been granted the ability to shrink. Did it go underground too, for I lost it completely… I realize then, I took my eye off the threat, but then again in the Three Fates’ web, perhaps we are all clinging to the same seasonal gossamer thread.
The neighbor’s doorknob plops me back into my own dimension too suddenly, as I rise and dust off my bottom, and silently slip away