Only Two Legs and No Silk

by T.M. Wright

I wonder how the spider
lays a single strand of silk out
ten or twelve feet on a
diagonal--from tree to porch
railing, or
flagpole to chair, sunflower
to park bench.
I've read that he
flings himself
into the breeze, and I wonder
if he does it with a cheer--a crisp
"Whoopee," and a broad
grin.

But, in the midst of this
compulsive behavior (which he shares
with many spiders), I wonder if he worries
that a starling will come along
and snap him up, or if the breeze will stiffen
or die
before he reaches his destination, leaving him
stranded.
He's got guts, I'll give him that.
Or maybe he doesn't care. Maybe, for him,
the flight's the thing,
the whole thing, or
most of the thing
anyway. Or perhaps he has no
destination at all--maybe any destination
will do.

© T.M. Wright, 2003

T.M. Wright, former editor of Writer Online, now its literary editor, has published 28 novels since 1978 and lives in Honeoye, NY, where he chases large moths around the living room because some people in the household think they're bats.