Sunday (or how to eat what is bigger than you)

Large wasp.
Larger spider.

Dead or paralysed?
Unsure.

Spider folded into a neat parcel.

Wasp holds tight
Over the spider’s head

And,
Walking backwards
With frenetic wings, caterpillar legs,
And the vision of prophets,
Drags the spider
Up the wall.

Towards what?
Unsure.

There is no nest in sight -
No obvious nook
And no obvious end to this dance.

After 20cm
The spider falls to the ground.

The wasp flies:
Tracing snapped virtuosic diagonal lines
Across the yard
Into and out of shadows
Crossing into sunlight

Then

Returning

Reclaiming the spider-corpse (lunch?)
And walking-dragging
Again
Backwards up the wall...

Falling again.
Flying again.
Diagonal again.

Returning continuously
With infinite reserves
Of energy
And optimism
Or perhaps
Simply
No memory
No judgement
No effort...

Afterall

What else is a wasp to do
When a spider is waiting at the bottom of the wall
On a Sunday?

And what else am I to do but watch?

Standing here with arms
Covered in goosebumps
And a foggy past-life memory
Of angry hornets: mysterious insects with miraculous bodies,

their own portion of mind,

And hunger

These beings with whom I share this breath, life,

And bow.