In the crisp light where the morning tries to decide on the sort of day it wants to wear, the crystal silk of spiders' webs kaleidoscope the air, softly shifting the plains of existence, carving a disjoint in the horizon.
I'm drawing spiders and their webs at the moment. Painstakingly recording the strands that leap from surface to surface and catch like the lightest trapeze in mid-fall. Dancing over the Web, plucking at each chord the spiders work their way - predators of vibration and breeze.
It's hard to say you like spiders - in the same way that I can say I am a cat person say; something about them is alien, too other in the way they move, and you suspect they are just too clever by half. Yet I do admire spiders; the beauty, the simplicity and the complexity of the Web they have created. The skill in the construction, and the ability to create such things so quickly and assuredly. Of course the purpose is predatory - and scarily effective, but even here I feel a moment of awe, they after all can spend their energy on the Art, after that food takes care of itself.
This morning I take photos of a really big one - a spider, by the garage, in the hope I can study it later. It sits in the centre attuned to each vibration, each tremor, waiting to cross dimensions to meet its prey. Then later I find myself looking down the tracks and noting the way the wires, the trees, the horizontals of the bridge all serve to stretch out across the morning, to weave their own Web, their own series of connections that take the thick translucent milkshake of the morning and carve it into the moments of the day.
I stay very still, and wait.