(If you do not believe all of this that I am telling you about the ants, go back and look more closely at the pages of this manuscript --- you will find a few tiny carcasses that I have managed to press between the pages of this book.) Soon the base of the straw has become a pyre of most probable death. The straw penetrates a pile of them that consistently expands, like a dry sponge tinged with a steady drip of water. They scramble over dead ones and living ones and try desperately to stay on the top layer of the pile --- they realize they have made a serious mistake --- and try to go back the way they came.
I stay until the cup is completely covered. I contemplate throwing the cup away. I do not feel entirely comfortable being responsible for the murder of many more ants --- at least two hundred --- a sizable fraction of the whole colony and a loss that would be meaningful and negatively impactful on the community, to be sure. But I also refuse to shun my responsibility as a mindful and considerate civilian by leaving litter in a public place that people come not only to relax and reflect, but to mourn the loss of the ones whom they love who used to be living and are now dead.