As I sit on the deck with camera in hand
I spot several who claim this as their home also
Beautiful, long and alone day
Hey, but then I have the birds, creatures who come near
In fall, in the garden and the fields beyond, in the delicate yellow space between anything,
spiders, plump as acorns, spin their webs; they are the wildest woven things; they are
the most shimmering death traps.
What is a spider good for? A few things surely. Birds eat spiders, this feeding the song.
And spiders eat insects, some of which, we know, carry disease--though not pride--
not that one.
But, speaking of that. At dawn, the early walkers, to the spider a giant,
wanders through the garden and the fields in the meditative, and inattentive,
frame of mind of first things.
This is of course, myself. And more then once I have not noticed the
dew-glimmering web in time, and the spider stamping her tiny feet and screeching:
I live here, duck your head....
~~Mary Oliver~~ White Pine Poems