augury doggerel

Wednesday, June 12, 2002


I am wet halfway up my shins with dew from taking the grassy route to work. In the long grass along the edge of the railway, the trampoline traps of the funnel weavers are also wet. Each spider´┐Żs central retreat is a black spot against the dew grown on the web. Eventually an unlucky intruder will catch an ankle or three and tumble down the funnel into the dark deep center. At the bottom, invisible, the builder waits on points, keeping its eight shins carefully dry.


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