THE THINKER by Chuck Sims

“Do you know what that statue is?” she asked as we walked through the garden.

“No, I don’t. Do you?”

We were freshmen exploring the surroundings. The grass was green and the fall warmth was cooled and shadowed by the tall trees.

“It’s a copy of Rodin’s The Thinker from early in 1900. I’m an art major. I have to know stuff like that.”

“Good to know. What’s he doing?”

“He’s thinking, silly.”

“Really? Then why is he staring at the ground?”

“Who knows? Whatever Rodin was trying to convey. I’ve got to go. See you around.”

I never saw her again. I came back to that garden, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but she seemed to have disappeared into the campus, never to be seen again.

Suppose the thinker was not thinking at all. Suppose he was just staring at the ground calming his mind, what would he see?

On the ground beneath him was a red ant bed. They were not interested in him, but maybe he was interested in them. What were they doing?

Some ants would appear from the nearby grass forest carrying an impossibly large load and disappear into the entrance to the underground. Then another ant would careen out of the hole and track back into the forest. Were they hunter gatherers? Were they nature’s cleaners?

Some of the larger ants encircled the hole, like an ill-organized set of soldiers guarding a perimeter. Were all wars fought by female troops?

Smaller ants followed the winding trails to the forest. They all seemed to know each other, greeting each other as they met with a ritualized hug of sorts.

Where did the underground tunnels go? Did the tunnels lead to a grand court where the Queen ruled over her willing slave empire? Did only females occupy the bed of the Queen unless something special needed to happen . . . you know . . . something SPECIAL.

The ants continued to circle and depart and return. And The Thinker sat there staring at the ground.