Uprising

For a moment, the air is thick with ants,
punctuating the day like currents in a bun.
Agents of mild panic, occasional spasms -
don't suck one in. Then I blink,
and were they a hallucination?
No: they've just somehow synchronised their landings, like a falling wave,
and now they're crawling across the bridge and suddenly this page,
under people's steps, through the cracks,
then up again in a breath,
silvery-winged, fat black smudges,
a breeze of insects,
am I only the one seeing this?
On my trousers, my arm,
look closer, anywhere -
not my ear too?
There are more ants than people on this bridge,
which they've taken over,
and I pay tribute to our new masters here.