I back out from the garage,
and there he sits,
bigger’n life, perched
in the middle of my windshield.
Six legs, carapace
the color of molasses
glistening in the evening sunset.
But, rather than brush him off,
send him on his way,
I opt for blood sport.
At five miles per hour
he is unimpressed,
walks mockingly from one side
to the other, a sprinter
stretching out
before the gun fires.
At ten it’s still
just a joke.
He lifts two legs at me, defiant,
stares through the glass.
Is that all you’ve got?
But at twenty, suddenly
the game is afoot.
All six legs, now firmly planted,
bow in a bit,
lowering his body
into the narrow safety
of the boundary layer.
At thirty he hangs on
with verve, though to what
is a mystery.
He pivots to face uphill,
drawing the laminar airflow
around his natural contours.
Nearing forty,
his grip is now
the stuff of miracles,
tiny feet on a sheen of glass.
I ponder tapping the wiper.
Yet he remains.
Is that a grimace?
I push harder on the pedal.
At fifty his legs tremble visibly.
I focus my gaze on his shivering body.
A mile passes,
then another,
but I do not see the road,
nor recall my errand.
I am compelled now
to measure his worth.
For me it is a gauntlet
thrown down.
For him it is interstellar travel.
Five more minutes,
then ten.
I pull into a gas station,
and he, unmoved, relaxes
his grip as I draw to a stop.
I shut off the engine,
no sound
but the tick tick of cooling.
I watch as gossamer wings unfold,
stretch briefly.
Then he rises, glances my way,
and flies away without a word,
to start
what must surely be
a whole new life.