8.

Here is a spider
waiting for something to
climb into the white, thick webbing
so it can swell its rounded
abdomen with blood

The process is slow
as it wraps in meticulous
form, instinctual too, cocooning
its meal in the same swirling
pattern

Those tiny fangs sink
through layers of milky thread
drinking blood from an empty husk
without any notion of pain or
passion

How it hangs there now
fixed in soundless aim and urgent
eagerness for such a small creature
to trap itself in the sticky net
of webs

So much patience and
hubris in this insect, loitering
in an empty space between two trees