when it rains, the golden orb
weaver has built her web,
stretching from the rickety
back door to the old, faded beam
near the eaves. She waits
in the middle, a trail of carcasses
and miscellaneous debris line
down the center like a landing strip
or an arrow pointing to her home.
She stays still most days, dark hairy
legs spread from the oversized
almost-pearlescent abdomen.
But sometimes she rushes forward
at the barest hint of a vibration,
scrambles with her oversized legs
in her search for the cause.
Then she returns to the center
of her web to fall still, waiting
for one more interruption
from her daily routine.
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