The house sparrow flies to the ground
To get the
seed that has fallen from the feeder.
In doing so,
it flies through a bit of spiderweb
Which works
as something like a phone call
To the
spider, who then answers with a hello,
Careful and
very quiet, but nobody is there.
This happens
a lot to spiders.
It makes
them grumble about the neighbors
Who walk
across the spider’s curious lawn.
But the
complaint is hollow—sometimes
Someone is
indeed there, a fly, a moth,
Any number
and manner of very small beast.
They try to
run away but are tripped up
By the long,
thin fingers of the web.
The small
thing quivers, asks politely, please,
To be let
go, followed by a sincere apology.
But a spider
does not have ears. This explains
Why it does
not hear the house sparrow
Swoop up
into the air, high enough
To reach the
spider. Few leaves rustle,
While the
whole world simply moves forward.
This is the
Saturday business of the immense
Backyard
conglomerate at work.
If one
listens, one might hear
The great,
bustling city of it all,
The small
sirens and screams,
The
caterpillars backing up,
The geckos
at their mysterious work.
Victoria Chang,
You Are Here Ada Limon, ed. (Milkweed Editions, 2024)
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