Dear diary, as the clouds perform their daily trek due south, due north at the whims of the winds, I strike the metal to the logs making a damp thump noise to make ready firewood for the incoming winter. It is the season, here in Sweden, of the fattning of the spiders. I heard today, dear diary, the desperate flapping of wings, the crying buzzing of a language I didn’t speak yet I understood the fear I felt, so universal to us in this planet. I swung my eyes to the window of the cabin where my ears caught the incoming SOS. I noticed the pane was littered with insect remains of a past feast and many more layered on the wood of the window sill. The cobwebb was impecably clean and built around the corners of the frame, except for the struggle taking place it was a nice opaque white spider web. It was a fly, a black tiny fly, the same kind I too kill at will on these hot spring-to-summer days on these swedish highlands.
And I thought, isn’t it funny how no one, of the letters I scour, speak of drinking water nowadays, how no one tells of cold mountain water runnning down your ribs, and how fresh it feels to have it downed through your throat?
Meanwhile, the arachnid, oblivious to the fluttering, circles the fly about, mapping out the best way to wrap the fallen critter for a later meal.