In the garden

October: in amongst the dripping ivy are spider webs with guyropes slung taut and wide. At the centre cling their tawny makers, abdomens fat and legs bent and striped. If we lean up close and yelp, the spiders lift their two front legs in defensive alarm. We feel bad but intrigued; where are spiders' ears? I like it that they can perceive our voices. And other parts of us, too, perhaps - our bulk and breath and tread as we crash about in their:our space.

We watch a spinner weave from her spinarette; catch the thread and place it quietly, taking the exact same time over the same step, plucking and setting diligently. Looking at the delicate structure, I think of the 'divine proportion' and its independence to the human world.

Beats raking up leaves anyhow!


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