Spiders have a bad rap, hanging as they do from doorways, windows, rosemary and juniper as if ready to pounce. They announce fall, nets catching the last flies, gnats; intricate threads drip diamonds early mornings when the fog is hard against our windows. There it is, waiting, waiting for the hapless, still as dark, legs attached to nothing it seems, waiting to sense a slight change, to prey, to wrap the slightest being, scare the timid, herald cold’s arrival with a shiver though it didn’t mean to. Down the tensile it travels when winter comes burrowing with us until warmth returns.
Tom Schabarum | Writer 