A large black Yosemite ant bites

his neck and hangs on for dear

life. Tiny clouds of spring

mosquitoes dive bomb the marshy

meadow and attack. He follows

mirage trails in the spotted

sunlight. Two hours lost in the

wilderness and he begins to cry

for help, pulling pinecones apart

to see if they have seeds. The

warrior, he remembers, does not

panick and learns how to relax in

the moment. The ant is precise,

the mosquito accurate, the human

at fault.


Paul Lowe