It used to look at us

With well-founded fear

Of being squished, poisoned

Or eaten by a bird.

Its sensitive bristles

Gave early warnings

Of an impending swat.

Its googly eyes,

A mosaic of imagery.

Its thready legs

Ready to high-jump

In a full reverse take-off.

But now it sits, immobile

On my desk.

Luminescent green, blue and gold.

A wondrous machine

Whose minute mysteries,

like its wings,

Remain to unfold.

david williams