So we are all back from a week in Ohio and one thing became painfully obvious—people outside of Florida are polite.

On most humid days in south Florida, the sulfur-rich smell of reclaimed water is kicked up by sprinklers in an attempt to make the once-swampy terrain look inhabitable. The water splashes from the leaves down to the blades of grass and puddles on the ground, driving earthworms from their soil beds onto the hot Florida asphalt where they immediately begin to shut down. The worms’ attempt at locomotion becomes nothing more than pained writhing until it finally stops.

Somewhere beneath the surface a colony of ants lay in wait. When the final death cries of the struggling worm have ceased the ants begin to mobilize. Hundreds of ants ascend from their subterranean bunker and begin tearing at the fresh carcass. The ants swarm until the worm is no longer visible; becoming instead a worm shaped pile of legs and claws tearing, pulling, biting and shredding.

The sun rises on a stain—maybe a glyph in some cryptic language of nature foretelling of man’s demise—and it starts all over again.

• Two U.S. quarter dollars
• One U.S. nickel
• Seven U.S. pennies
• Four red checkers
• Three black checkers
• One pumpkin seed