You admire the brush and say, “Yeh, mesquite is cool, check out the thorns.”

 This thing was the diameter of a regulation basketball, it’s eight legs as thick as my wrist, and tucked in tight to its body. We had a plain view of its underside, the extra legs it used for eating were big enough to carry a chicken.

 I approach the scraggly tree, and open my pocketknife; a mesquite would go good in my garden. I raise my sharp knife and tug on a branch to take a clipping; the whole tree shook violently with rhythm. The great bug that before had me hypnotized had begun to rock its taut network of sinewy webbing, as if to capture prey. Toad picked up a longish stick, moving to the center of the tree.