I cast my eyes along the murky pond's algaed edge,
seeking amidst hydrilla and water hyacinths
diversion from overweight August's steamy breath:
curiosities aquatic, alien animalcules to peer at as Lord,
but no minuscule beings stir the muckrocosm.

I sigh, and turn back towards climate-control by Rheem
then stop, caught by some flash of yellow movement
between two sabre-sharp cattail fronds:
a plump black-spotted garden spider,
living petit pois, arachnoid singularity,
octopedal acrobat to humble man's most adept.

I turn aside to see this great sight,
settle in silent deference due an artist at work.
To accompaniment of sultry thunderhead threats,
I watch the minute architect engineer a marvel:
flawless execution of instinctive perfection,
unmarred by wasted movement or time.

In childhood I gaped at Verrazzano's rise,
but a greater feat is here strung between straws:
The Web.
Miraculous device of adroitly-spun spider-steel,
aeons-old sticky sine qua non of hunting snares,
wrought by a creature others eagerly destroy.

Driven raindrops wash away my reverie.
Hobbled from immobility, I creak toward shelter.
Stirred by indigo storm-front gusts,
the spider waits, patient, in the completed Web...

LW