A long time ago after The Great Spirit
Had divided a mountain between two
Envious tribes, like Solomon splitting
The baby in two with one clean bold stroke,
I climbed one of the halves, and noticed
On the summit path - bright red wasps
Building centimeter wide holes with micrometers
And ants laboring to carve one inch wide
Concentric circles of soil. It was a hard climb,
Each named step, testament to the faith
In the need to climb bluffs.

Perched there on the brown remnants of
The Ice Age, over greystone and Jordon sandstone
I could see the redbricked town nestling between
Tree covered hills and grey clouds and two church spires
Competing for reverence for a European God -
Old forgotten miseries,
While the Mississippi kept drowning itself.

What need, I thought, for a belief in Gods
With red wasps and ants labouring
With such precision?