Lynnel Jones

On summer mornings
when we walk the gravel drive
to the township road
we pass dew-jeweled silk bowls
atop the tallest weeds.

Invisible to us and prey
the spider women weavers wait
off site
connected by a signal line
that telegraphs
"There's breakfast."

"Don't think our bowls don't matter.
The neighbors specialize
in grass and power mowing.
We specialize in evenings
when we weave new bowls
powered only by the remains
of each day's dish
and the carcasses of our mates."