Between our porch railing lives little Ben.
His web bridges two rod-iron spokes bringing in gnats and flees.
Little Ben is a patient hunter—so tiny but so spry.
Each night, as I sit in my porch chair sipping a sunset beverage,
watching the lava glow over the horizon, little Ben is spotted
gliding over the orange flow—with ease—no fear at all.
My little Ben, crawling over the crimson ball—
a radiant silhouette.