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The Weaver and the Mockingbird

In the garden lives the golden weaving spider,

hunkered low among leafy Hosta,

hunkered with amplified caution,

hiding some place darker,

more protected.

It’s living between seasons,

interlacing web of pure silver chilled moonshine threads,

nothing at the edges to tangle with the breeze,

no hindrance to vibration announcing nourishment,

a small work of fine art for one.

It’s world is hidden,

it’s early twilight mostly damp,

gone the bright radiant warmth and vulnerability,

gone the perfume of lavender blossom.

Now, when flashlight stains knotted twine,

admiring unwrapped white petals,

brick pattern beneath decking,

or geodes cracked open during desert exploration,

the spider believes it is safe.

In oak branch lives the ravenous mockingbird,

With striped, white inner wing,

glistening against the pale glow of back porch light,

collecting detail,

evaluating nightfall gust,

methodically mapping the next attack.

Also living between seasons,

mimicking evening song and dry trills of oriole,

imitating rasps of the lonely bullfrog cry,

or the unanswered ring of our phones.

The jays world is open,

it’s gray breast warmed by setting ray,

perched defiant,

proclaiming it’s innate greedy nature,

beckoning conquest.

Now, as appetite increases,

hunger flickers bright in the night,

Long elegant tailfeathers span outwards,

the curved beak opens to a gasp,

a hunger is still hollow,

a jump and a swoop,

he targets his prey.

This is the most important time of all,

time of crisscrossing dark terrain

staying out of sight.

Time for knowing danger is upon the wind,

the remotest chances still exist,

knowing distant galaxies can collide,

and this could be the end.

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