Tarantula highway leads
nowhere they just need
a place to move around.

Millions of furry legs, tiny
feet delicately lifted, placed down,
in and out, the susurrations
of countless cilia, the plosive
percussion of their footsteps.

An overpass crosses the spidery traffic:
a local road where other insects
go about their business and sometimes
lean over the edge of the railings
to watch the steady flow of high-
stepping brown tarantulas advancing
ever forward to some imaginary
banana boat or all night spider-rave.

A small shadow grows over them.
Something with wings approaches.