ON THE ROAD
They say before a rain
that tarantulas
move away from the creek –
or towards it before a dry spell.
Either way, they seem to know
the shortest course
across the blacktop
that interrupts their forest
of thick, brittle grasses.
Never lost upon the hard,
gray plain of oil and aggregate,
they do not yield
to the flow of traffic,
neither sidetracked nor distracted
by the churning current
of rubber-tired turbulence.
On the cusp of weather changes,
the asphalt crawls with spiders.
At the last minute, I swerve
to avoid their certain
octo-ambulation
– hairy, high-stepping appendages
inspired by something
worth risking death.