on a hinge
creaking like a gold door,
so rich and heavy and full of treasure.
The needle head blows north,
then south,
orienting itself,
as its stem lounges by a finger.
The ants line up underneath it,
looking up,
waiting for that door to crash down,
for that needle to point their way home,
to feed their queen.
And their heads move,
east
and west,
watching the wind,
wrestling with the leaf,
gently creaking.
They wait,
wondering where to go
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