Talk of Armadale Trees
Quiet. Sunshine. The scent of resin in the air.
None of which excited the ant. It carried the crumb to the colony, not minding the girl who stopped in the pinegrove to contemplate the canopy and to soak up the environment.
She stayed just for a couple of days in Armadale on the Isle of Skye and chanced upon this pine grove during one of her daytrips. The girl didn’t know it yet, but this would end up to be her sharpest memory of the Scotland roundtrip, clearer than the standing stones of Orkney, clearer than the black sand on the lonely beach, parting in the wake of her stick as she etched the names of her imaginary friends into it.
She never noticed the ant as she listened to the soft conversation of the trees, one occasional crack at a time and the rustle of the wind among the pine-needles.
The ant didn’t take note of her either. It just carried the crumb on in the sunlit silence.
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