The tiny weaver spun its silk scaffolding under the dying petals. The morning sun would bring gnats, flies, and with luck, a fat caterpillar, its favorite. Days since its last feast, it burned with hunger.
It watched and waited from under the tangle of snake stems above the withered petals. Time cycled on, its life neared the end.
A fly buzzed straight into the netting, trapped.
Eight ferocious legs flashed up, instinct unleashed.
A sudden wind sucked the weaver into a hovering ship. Light years away, the observers fed its hunger.
The fly struggled, a solitary witness to first contact.