The Spider’s Sleep In The Arch Above My Door


She eats her yesterday,
the night the bees fled.
Reeling in, unhitching
intricacy.

The freight train rumbles,
the coyote humbles its soft feet
in the melon patch
and pole beans
near her silent spinning
over the door we share.

Like me, she tosses dream-silk
to the nearest fragile limb
asleep in the dim light
to snag an anchorhold
on what she must do,
what cares to be seen to,
or believe in with the coming
of dawn’s jewel-dew.

Relentless under the impromptu
show of one lonely star in cloud-drift,
a screech owl’s rapid strike,
the crackle of street light,
her night work ties up single
tether points, casting
off broken ones, eaten,
prayers stretched from her hold.

Nimbled for the rising
of a take-for-granted sun,
she finishes a catch-all for a day
into which wanderers
might fly.

By Tricia Knoll

spider and web close up.


Knoll_Author_PhotoI wrote my chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press) some years ago and spent time looking for stories and events that highlighted the interface between wild creatures and humans in urban habitat. I live near a small creek in Portland which is a corridor for coyotes. Each fall a pileated woodpecker comes back to investigate my alder trees. I was captivated by this story of Isolde and the other red tails who have found niches in New York City. Website: triciaknoll.com

Photo of spider web by Noppharat Manakul

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