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.