That's why it always uses a broom, instead. And sometimes one of those Swiffer Sweeper things. And it always has a dustpan handy, one of those kinds with a little matching brush.
Aah, beating a dead horse. Nothing quite like it to get the blood pumping, eh?
First, some flowers. I'm sure you guys would rather see that than another train photo.
Now then--more Nature.
Meno's post about finding a spider in her sun room led me to remembering a certain writing spider I photographed some ten years ago at my old house, and about how I first learned about them.
The 'spider' you see to the lower left of the bigger spider's leg is in fact the bigger spider's freshly shed skin. She was a good four inches across, easily the largest writing spider I'd ever seen, and she was utterly gorgeous, clean and bright in her new clothes.
I remember my first encounter with a writing spider. I was wandering around in the overgrown barnyard of my grandfather's home in Mississippi; my brother and father were somewhere, and my grandfather was behind me. I might have been all of six or seven, and the dead weeds rustled and crackled as we pushed our way through. I came upon a writing spider who had spread her web between tall stalks of some weed or other, and I couldn't help but notice the scribble of white webbing that she rested above. My grandfather leaned over and said "That's a writing spider. See? He's so proud of his web he wrote his name on it." I can still see him pointing out the squiggly thick white line down the middle and him saying "Henry" in his clear, heavy preacher's voice. I didn't get the joke for years...my grandfather's first name was Henry. I tried for hours to make letters form out of that random scrawl of thick silk. *S*
I can't look at a writing spider now without thinking of that wonderful old man, without hearing that voice just over my shoulder. He died just a few years later. His was the first casket I ever carried as one of six pall bearers, the first time I ever felt like an adult man. I was performing a man's task. It was his death taught me that Life, no matter how grand or pathetic or mediocre, ends sooner or later. It's just Nature.
I can still hear his voice.