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  • Writer's pictureCrone

Bound together

The spiders make webs that cross the park, like they're seeking to weave it into a silky tapestry and the late afternoon light makes their shimmering lines shine silver-gold.

I wonder as I walk how much precious work each footstep destroys and yet, though there are other people here, there's no evidence of the damage, no holes in this shield of silken fibres. There's nothing on my boots to show, no webby matting catching the drops in the damp grass. And no one else is staring, stunned, at the light-lines on the lawn.

Is it all my mind?

The spiders themselves are unseen spinners, turning turf into tapestry. This length of twine, how long? This long and then it must stop, surely, somewhere... or is this one thread, back and forth and back and forth over the acres of path, hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands of miles long?

Something is connected. Something must be connected. Everything is connected.

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