Poetry

At the stump of the fig tree
where sweetness and fragrance
have long departed
a rain spider has built a nest
of autumn-dried leaves
covered with a blanket
of delicate silk.

I stand and watch
the little spiders
coming out to play
in smooth fur jackets -
first, a game of tag
and then a fencing game
with slender long legs.

Soon they will spread out
and scurry around in the hunt for food;
raising neck hairs and bring shrieks of terror
as they intimidate nervous children and wives.