trout

Cane Spider

Brandy McDougall

     Quick, dark whir
          across the floor
               toward the unlit corner.

Long legs folded
into thorax?
          you make yourself
          small, almost gone
               in a camouflage
               of dust.

     Hairless arachnid,
born between
          the jointed stalks
               and the restless shadows
               that measure the earth –
scared, spindly thing.

     They've burned your home
     long into night
               and won't stop
               until morning.