Ants Like Cattle at a Trough

It’s been a dry spring. The grass as crunchy as corn flakes without milk. The last rain I can barely remember now.

The ants seem to appreciate the saucer of water I left out back for the birds on the picnic table. One by one, the tiny black specks line the edge of the clay saucer like cattle at a trough drinking to their heart’s content — their antennas searching the air as they sip.

It will rain again. It always does.

By Jeffrey Pillow

Jeffrey Pillow is an American short story writer, memoirist, and poet. He is the author of The Lady Next Door. His writing has been published in Urge Magazine, The Nervous Breakdown, 16 Blocks, USA Today, Sports Illustrated,, New York Times, Washington Post, and Richmond Times-Dispatch.

He grew up in the small town of Phenix, Virginia, population: 200, and now lives in Charlottesville with his wife, two kids, and a dog named Mozzarella Cheese. He is a graduate of the University of Virginia where he was a Rainey Scholar. This is his blog.