Once I watched a fly,

struggle against a web,

I stared as it twitched in horror,

knowing it would soon be dead.

Ever so gently,

a small brown spider

stepped on to its

white, glossy trap.

Maneuvering forward

to claim her prize,

with protruded fangs,

I grabbed a twig and pulled off the fly,

sitting it on a nearby leaf,

until it’s wings were free and dry.

I looked back to the spider,

who felt the wrath from my stick,

to see it hit the pavement.

Upon reaching the ground,

small spots scattered near my feet,

and I watched

as the baby spiders

ate their own mother.

Oh, the irony

of struggle.