The one with the Ant Lions

I can smell the earth, even while holding my breath. Dank and musty the dry earth wafts into my nose and clings to the inside. My face inches from the dirt. Eyes focused on one of the many conical depressions made by what I am hunting. Staring at the gray dirt as fine as powdered sugar and marbled with black that looks like the pile of ashes in the green ashtray on the end table by our flowered couch. I purse my lips and gently blow along the side walls of the trap set by the predator I am hunting. I watch the small trail of grains fall to the center of the hole. I continue to blow. My arms are starting to quiver holding my head as still as possible. In my right hand I have a red small plastic shovel. My eyes are focused on the center of the inverted cone watching for any movement.

In my peripheral vision I can see James’ low top Chuck Taylor shoes, faded blue, his only shoes worn all year at school. Today was the last day of third grade, and my mom wasn’t home from work yet, which gives us free reign of the house and yard, as long as we don’t bother by sister. This being her last day of fifth grade she is now, technically, in middle school and has assumed the actions of a vile sixth grader. James asks if I can see anything.

I focus while my breath pushes more dirt into the center. I am not glancing away. To catch a predator, you must be focused like a predator. I wiggle my left forefinger to signal to James there is no movement. On the third wag it happens. The depression in the center becomes a rising mound. I ready my shovel. I see two teeth emerge from the center. In my mind I was about to capture the Sarlacc rescuing Luke from Jabba the Hutt.

I jab my shovel just beneath the hole and slowly pour the contents into my hand sifting the gray dust between my fingers. Using a cluster of pine needles like a broom I brush aside the remaining dirt from the palm of my hand. I cackle with triumph rocking back on my heels. Raising my hand to James I show my catch. The beast I was tracking, caught in his own trap.

The Ant Lion sat in the smooth center of my palm its bulbous body searching for escape in my unforgiving skin. The mandibles of the beast opening and closing seeking for the prey my breath mimicked, the unsuspecting ant traveling along and falling into the conical trap sliding to its death.

James and I leap up with triumph and race to my sisters bedroom door.