Maybe it’s just me, but I find it odd
To see a butterfly and then a frog
Along the road, beside the pond upon
A rock, with an army of ants with a leaf in tow.
They seemed to be friends, though how could that be
For a bunch of creatures from the grass and weeds could
Find the time to meet for tea, for a chat or a wave or a
bite from an occasional crumb from an old paper plate.
Picnics are full of interesting sorts of bits and snippets of
a feast for a crew who meet on a rock, beside the pond
on a day in March at the beginning of Spring.