Leaning, phone to ear,
against mossy ridden pole
this tarmac pavement
stretches in T shape before me,
hold music warbling while I regard
bugs and butterflies alike.

They flit and scuttle between grass
embankments, cliff sides to them,
verge to I, this lumbering sleeping
god, and their movements entrance
for am I enthralled as bug walks between
each side over and over and over,
little explorers.

A woman and pram strolls by
and through the junction toward
back alley forest, yard, recreation
centre, my eyes darting to where
my pioneer bugs had been,
and they have vanished, disrupted,
displaced I hope, for I do not wish
to entertain the alternative.

She is gone, and I remain solo,
these towering behemoths of humanity
carving paths with disregard
through unchallenged existence,
and neither we, nor bug, can
communicate.