Well the sun came out but the wind not letting up
unsatisfied with its chill rolled out a skyful
of ruffian clouds scowling and broody, but then,
prevailing, blew them southwest away again,
revealing rippled bars of high cirrostratus.
Our talk on the way back was of burglary
or the lack of it on these remote farms
and of automatic gate glitches to places
where no one locked anything anyway.
But no sooner did we turn on the pump
and shift some dishes than we caught Horace
the huntsman sitting in a bowl - jumped back
as fast as any jumping spider both of us;
then I remembered myself and grabbed a tumbler,
imprisoned him within its wide-brimmed frustrum.
Poor miscreant shrunk into a strange ellipse,
wary of the touch of the alien glass wall,
then recovered his boldness and ran around
the little circuit of his transparent cell,
shaking his mandibles a while before
attempting a standoff, he crouched splayed,
his wraith-pale legs in orange football socks.
Well, I shook him out, which settled the matter,
abandoned him to his high stepping ungainly
through long grass blades and brought back
glass and bowl, trusty tools, for a good soak.
..................
Ok. This guy / gal I found on pic universe, doesn't have orange socks. But, (one has to sleep) between friends ....
