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Writing Spider
A path coils like the aphid's gouging the rose, a dark line lingering by finger beans. No one sees me outrun the whiskered corn or spill myself on the grass or fall amazed under her silken staring. Electric against the black law of the trees, huge yellow zigzags around her like lightning. A mystery, I think. There's not yet the evidence we expect, swaddled stingers, fuzzy cocoons well-prepared, and for whom? The web glistens. I see the trunks leaning in, as if she draws them with her tip-toeing strength. I rise, pulling myself from under her without touching or being touched, clothes a little clammy. How old am I when I lift the stick, prod this and that corner of her concentration? It requires her to type back and forth her swaying, signing possession. I want to touch her now but instead blow casual, ordinary breath over the moment of her beautiful resting. I get very close and I do not believe she has come to this revelation for me. Or that she can jump from time to time.