At first we didn’t see it
It’s not meant to be seen

The web is higher than our heads
In the upper branches
Lucky for us

At the moment, it catches nothing
But the breeze
That lifts the weave to breaking
And ripples it
And the morning sun
Rendering visible the finest light
A ghostly, prism of the whitest blue
Spinning pink

For a moment, we observe

Someone takes a photo
Which disappointingly fails to catch
Anything but the memory of the moment

Others fit the web in with the
Collection of other webs they’ve seen before
On other mornings
Of other, better, days
Before, for them, death donned its formal wear
And stepped forth from the shadows
(It’s not meant to be seen either)

And then, as a cloud passed
Between us and the sun, the web
Ceased scintillating
And vanished

The spider, of course, remained
And we walked on

-Bront Davis