Marilyn Baszczynski

"Here it is," you call, crouching
beneath a gnarled oak along
the pasture trail.

In the mottled morning light
a minuscule creature poses and
sways on glints of threads; its green

legs glow en pointe, silver and yellow
cigar-abdomen held en ballon
balancing in the breeze.

"Venusta orchard spider," you whisper.
"Beautiful." I lean in close,
barely breathing, feel

a supplication for grace.
Your eyes widen, search,
anticipate a performance.

A small black fly blunders in—trembles,
prompts the grand jete
sticky pas de deux.

I shudder off this opalescent
trance and start to leave yet
you linger, your view filled with orbs

caught in the last
dew drops of matins,
your silhouette in genuflection.