by Kasey Shultz
The next time you go out hunting for a feral camel,
Be sure to pack a lunch, a GPS, and maybe a flare gun.
Because the dirt that rises behind you is no trail of breadcrumbs
And it will dissipate into the hot, dry air,
Lost amid the haze of too much emptiness.
The only sign to mark your progress
Will be the parching of your throat,
For there will be nothing to guide you home,
No scraps of bread to fill your growling stomach,
Only ants, scurrying along through the thick dust,
Industrious and innocent,
When you decide to go back for your gun,
We could really use less of those.