Notes From The Morning Woods

The morning woods are cool and dark.  Not wet with dew like the pastures and marsh.

The caterpillar still hangs from a silk on the hawthorn, but now it looks more like a spiders feast than  the hope of new life.  Shrunk in on itself it no longer jiggles and jumps.

Under a small serrated edged leaf waits a long legged spider.

Leaving the woods the dogs go for a swim in the pond.  The waning moon like half a melon, soft as lace, travels high over the apple tree, alone in the blue sky.

I reach into the barn to get the rake and a barn swallow swoops past my face in warning.

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Full Moon Fiber Art