Of all places, you could have chosen better to snag a fly or a mosquito in your meager three-thread web than the corner of my bathroom where no bugs fly. And what were the chances of your being rescued and given another chance, lifted by your abseil line to the open air?
You were welcome enough in the steam, and no one minded you hanging next to their ablutions, their meditations and perusals. But why would you rebuild in the barren space, the same cockamamie place in the angle of roof slant and wall above my toothbrush?
And now I find you crumpled, a small black bunch of legs, with one strand of silk left against the paint. This time when I lift you, you don’t unfurl. Sic transit arachnid.
I guess there were plenty of mountain men who went alone into the wild, stepping into the hole, slipping off the cliff, eaten by the bear, never named, but not Kit Carson.
- DL
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