It’s a spiderweb morning.
They lace the marsh grasses like ship sails, doilies, hammocks, clotheslines, dream catchers, or an acrobat’s net waiting to catch what falls.
There is the scribbled dense center and telltale zigzag of the garden spider.
A silk house the size of my fist bends the leaves of the blueflag Iris and that plant with a stem like velcro that sticks to the sheep’s wool.
Lower to the ground, a thick spider carpet is suspended by the tips of long leaves of grass and softened with thistle fluff.
They stretch, they sag, they shine.
They jiggle as I walk by, all those tiny bells of dew silently ringing.