Semicolon Soiree

The morning bursts outside; birds do not sing, but screech, their warning warble into the air; ants march, not steady in a row, not otherly to build, or feed, or grow, but off in a mass to the other hive, to kill; badgers burrow only deeper to escape--as I wish I could--they follow their tunnel network to a central meeting places; the moles are waiting there, to plot and plan and share information, to sign a treaty or wage a war; I turn the page of watership down.