Ants tiptoe towards the edge of the blanket. It feels soft, old, and worn. The oppressive heat lifts as a breeze tickles his face, his arms. His mom jams his hat on his head. He tolerates it because it keeps the sun out of his eyes, which he hates. He crawls towards the sea of green grass, grabbing a knotted stick, thin enough to whip around, delicious looking. He brings it to his mouth, but his mom is too fast. She takes the stick from him; he’s already spotted a few more hidden in between the grass blades. He tries again, a smaller one this time, maybe she won’t notice (she does). His mission thwarted, he spots a bird yelling near by. As he begins to move toward it, it flaps away, sensing his approach. His mom scoops him up and walks to the pond. She points out ducks, turtles, moss. Everything white-washed by the Texas heat. The air crackles with the promise of rain and the animals begin to scatter, families pack away their strollers, blankets, and soccer balls. The clouds darken, their bellies heavy with raindrops. His mom bundles him in his stroller and they make their way to the car.