For the spider that built its web
from the post where I hung my hammock
to where my feet rested,
totally unnoticed:
O patron saint of creeping-out,
of spinning a home in the unlikeliest of spaces,
of suspending fallen plant matter in midair,
of leaving a trace but remaining unseen,
I hail your impossibility.
You and your ranks of arachnids
that spin webs on just-placed items
exist in a realm of natural magic
that, if seen even once, fails to exist.
To be spotted is to become a common pest.
For the yellow jacket that hovered over the surrounding ivy for an hour
without once lighting on me or my hammock:
I like you
in theory.
I carry an immense respect for wasps such as yourself
and a resentment against those who seek to destroy you,
who fail to acknowledge that NOT ONLY
were you here first BUT ALSO
you are a pollinator,
just like the fuzzy golden bees that the eco-conscious masses
have sworn to protect.
Just because we can't sympathize
with your sharp edges
doesn't mean you haven't been
picking up the slack
in the pollination business.
For ant that crawled across my hammock, end to end:
Any creature that understood the concept of the Moebius strip
would not have attempted your feat.
Yet with the gentlest guidance, the slightest nudge
after what could easily have been hours of crossing
over to under,
under to over the twisting cloth
blindly onward through the forest of fibers
in bright and unnatural colors,
you crossed the carabiner bridge
to the trapeze of knotted rope
on which you and I so dearly relied.
For the large wasp stuck inside overnight:
I don't know how to deal with my grief.
Letting you out,
one leg short from the start
and slower than can be okay,
was a funeral.
I wonder if there was anything to do.
If you were weakened by your indoor isolation,
maybe the lost strength can be regained with sunlight
and fresh air and the care of a glorious hive.
If you were weak from age,
may you rest in peace
of natural causes.
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