The little ant scurries, rushing to her burrow, she hides, 

Hoping the rain won’t destroy her freshly dug tunnels. 

The sweet little dragonfly is forced to land on a dewy frond,

Her wings, damp with the mist of the morning. 

Even the little snail, who usually longs for a drizzle,

Is swept swiftly into a deep, mud filled puddle.

But the mightier of the insects has foreseen this calamity.

She completed her web just before the first mist. 

Each little string spun carefully into a soft, silky pattern

Up and down, left and right, over and under, she spun with care.

Now, as the rain falls, her web becomes a fresh canvas 

For glistening dew drops and bright sun beams aglow, 

And when the rain ceases she will began again.