In my backyard, murder and mayhem happen all the time. The killer's major tactic is stealth. Some assassins weave barely visible sticky gossamer traps where there is an air flow to capture winged victims. Other deadly hunters lurk, cunningly camouflaged, amongst leaves and flowers ready to pounce on their unwitting prey. It only takes a second to paralyze their catch with quick-working toxin injected through their fangs. The victims are consumed on the spot, their life juices sucked out of them; or else they are expertly wrapped for future consumption; other hapless prey are strung like trophies in a complex web for the hunter to visit whenever it feels like a snack.

My camera has managed to record a few incidents. Silent eyewitness to the drama of life and death around every nook. Do the victims scream in terror? Our ears may just not hear their death songs. Is there beauty to be found even in such extreme violence? Do we experience fascination in the macabre? Nature is not always kind. Life is not all sweetness and light. Kismet does not always favor the meek and the innocent. It's a jungle out there. Ah well, we all have to eat.