They are waiting in the darkness.
The ground is patterned with light
crawling through the pines overhead.
The coolness in the doorway
brushes the small hairs on her face.
The spiders sleep in their webs.
They make no sound.
Heavy crisp bodies
with fullness of gravity weighing them.
Black, living splinters, spindly and shining.

She steps into the room and
the cages creak.
The webs are bouncing
as the legs flash and dart,
Step, step, stepping for the sure footing,
running gracefully on
the wooden beams:
the well-worn paths.

The needles strewn
on the hard-packed floor
writhe underneath as they gallop towards her.
Spine and shine and
sharp fingers waving and tapping.

She kneels down and
welcomes them
into her arms.