The Lot

It must have blown in on the wind,
This tiny spider hanging down
From a car window left open

In a bare, remote parking lot
By a reservoir far from trees
Or buildings—from anything much

But this blue pond up on desert
High ground, created to capture
Drinking water for towns below.

A spider of mysterious
Origin and nonnarrative
Behavior, it spins down its thread,

Dangles, seemingly pointlessly
As breezes sway it back and forth,
Like a bungee jumper waiting

To be reeled back in. Then it reels
Itself back in and disappears
Through the seam between door and roof.

Minutes pass. It does it again.
Then again. Cyclical as days,
As years of similar seasons.

Appear. Spin down. Dangle awhile.
Climb back up the silk. Disappear.
And again. Maybe it’s waiting

For prey, although what it could do
To capture anything this way’s
A mystery. Maybe it needs

Another gust to carry it
Somewhere a bit more promising,
And is trying to catch a lift.

Maybe it’s hopelessly confused,
Enacting evolved strategies
That can’t work in this circumstance.

Here it comes spinning down again,
As absurdist as whoever
Abandoned a car in this lot.