I’m a quiet little hunter who waits for a meal, one flick of my tongue and the catch is sealed.

The hills had an argument and left me between them. Trees moved in, mist forgot to leave. I keep a little green tucked below the commotion. Even the wind lowers its voice when passing through.

I’m warty and wrinkled, and rough as can be, I hop through the garden quite happily.

It serves to catch meat when it's placed wisely. Out of the butt, strong, sticky, spun precisely. It was an arachnid's work; it sure appears to be. BUT In the corner it belongs, structureless, next to the mold. Charlotte is gone, now it's dusty, abandoned and old. Found when someone runs a household wearing a blindfold.

I stopped by your planet, but didn’t stay long, now someone’s missing a cow and the crops look wrong.