Spiders of God

Often times, I return to my current residence late into the night. As I reach the porch, a motion-sensor light flicks on and I make my way to the now-visible door. But my segue from ramp to door is fraught with a community unexpected. Granddaddy Longlegs creep around in pairs and solitude, covering the porch like monks in a garden. I imagine they live in the brush and yard during daylight, praying fervently to the God of soil and sky above, and come out at night to commune with one another. They move with the practical humility of age, stretching out one off-centered limb as a cane for guidance. Their eyes have grown weak with crying their prayers into dirt day-in and day-out. The cane-limb taps around to clear the way and they stagger along in a funny sort of zig-zag. A drunken geriatric stumbling under his habit, but he's not alone. The whole lot of them move this way and so it seems normal compared to my direct gait from point-A to point-B. And careful to not disturb them as I pass, I must slow down and watch them. And they leave a strange impression upon my soul, their steps seem noble to me. Men of God, take notice! Piety and honor found in a spider named for its legs.