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On the neighbor’s lawn that I mow, huge mounds of anthills sometimes sprout up. And I like them, because my imagination then has a chance to have fun. Here:

I picture everytime that I mow, for the ants in these colonies, it is hurricane season. Or else the apocalypse. Or else the storm of the century, because ants’ lives are pretty short. Yeah, the last one seems the most plausible.

Anyways, I say this, because often I just mow right over the mounds, and all of the sand just jets out of the department that the grass jets out of. I don’t like completely ravaging their homes, but I am kinda forced to. But I picture the ants’ looking up at the huge approaching lawn mower, faces melting into horror, screaming their little heads off. Ahhh!!

And then I look back a few paces after the mound and say, “ouch, quite the storm this century.”

It’s kinda cool, though, looking up in the sky and imagining a huge mower, belonging to some more advanced species than us, trimming all of the trees down. Mowing their lawns.