Weave
There had been dew. Perhaps a light rain. And a blot drew my eye to that square of light through my kitchen window. Closer. I saw pincer legs measure out each wire. That pause of the engorged body before it dipped to spot-weld each link. I took a chair outside and stood on it. I wanted to live. It let me brush a fingertip across the brown velvet of its back, against the nap, until it froze mid-air, eight legs outstretched, still as a child roused from a trance of work. This is that same creature I would raise my slipper to, chase across carpet to end in a smudge.
I wouldn't have it in my hand. In my hair.
Yet it, she, worked there, to ensnare mosquito or bluebottle, those who might ruin a soup or drink blood. Hours. For once I took the time. Saw her target completed, strung high between window and washing line. Spider. Safe in her patch of unsafe sky.
I thought of the twist of cells that can work such wonder. I thought of poets whose words do not reach. Spider just does. Can't read the freak impending storm. And I saw birds, birds everywhere. Swooping for spiders. I feared something might skim, unknowing, through that hard-earned web. A sparrow maybe. Or an eagle.
Mario Petrucci
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