The little ant scurries, rushing to her burrow, she hides,
Hoping the rain won’t destroy her freshly dug tunnels.
The sweet little dragonfly is forced to land on a dewy frond,
Her wings, damp with the mist of the morning.
Even the little snail, who usually longs for a drizzle,
Is swept swiftly into a deep, mud filled puddle.
But the mightier of the insects has foreseen this calamity.
She completed her web just before the first mist.
Each little string spun carefully into a soft, silky pattern
Up and down, left and right, over and under, she spun with care.
Now, as the rain falls, her web becomes a fresh canvas
For glistening dew drops and bright sun beams aglow,
And when the rain ceases she will began again.