A child raced out of the kitchen’s back door before bacon and eggs were ready and hid under a branch of the old acacia tree.
The child caught sight of a shining web. Diamonds of dew glittered before surprised eyes like a bright, luring treasure.
A curious hand reached out.
“Please don’t break my web,” said the spider. “It took me an awfully long time to make.”
“Hello,” said the child.
“Shouldn’t you be eating your breakfast right about now?” asked the spider. “Why did you come running outside like some sort of crazy person?”
“I don’t know.”
“That can be very dangerous. Just because a door is cracked open doesn’t mean a body should rush through it.”
“I can’t help but notice you admiring my spectacular feat of aerial engineering. Isn’t it amazing? Are you curious how long it took me to create this miracle?”
“Why did you make that?”
“Good one!” laughed the spider. “It’s what I do. It’s what all spiders do. We knit our silk into a perfect geometric pattern and weave a beautiful trap.
“What you see is my tangible essence. My daily masterpiece spun from insatiable instinct.
“It’s my Sistine Chapel, my Starry Night, my Water Lilies. It’s my Persistence of Memory, my Guernica, my Night Watch. It’s my Garden of Earthly Delights, my Last Supper, my Mona Lisa. It is my self-portrait.
“It’s the place where I stand. I really can’t help myself. We spiders have to eat, too, like you.”
“What do you eat?” asked the child
“Silly flies that I trap.”
“What does a fly taste like?” the young child asked, suddenly thinking again about breakfast.
The spider laughed ominously. “Bacon and eggs.”
“You’re horrible! You’re nothing but a nasty little spider! What will you do if I break your web so you can’t kill any more flies?” demanded the child.
“I will eat my own miracle and weave again. But you won’t destroy my web because I can see you are exceptionally wise.”
“What does wise mean?”
“It means you speak to tiny things like me.”