One day at the farm in North Carolina, during a visit from my older cousins, I had an encounter with the big black writing spiders who left yellow messages in their big webs outside the house. I was the youngest of the cousins, and had to run to keep up with their antics.  One day it was up-on-the-meat-icebox-in-the-barn-and-jump-off-onto-the-pile-of- hay-day.  Of course I was last, and instead of landing in the hay I slipped way down into the space between  the  hay stack and the meat ice box. Horror of horrors, trauma of traumas, I knew only too well what was in those spider webs I fell into.

The sky is still there

the icebox hums its own tune

last in line is last