(I wrote this on the morning of October 18th, 2009, in the woods of Gus Fruh Park, Austin, Texas.)
In the woods there are webs.
Some we know well, like the orb webs that spiral to the center. Some surprise us on the forest floor, gauzy sheetwebs that taper to a funnel. Some are messy constructs like the cobwebs in the nooks of the trees.
But everywhere, everywhere, strands glint rainbows in the sunlight. Stretching from branch to branch, leaf to leaf, twig to twig, they are the trails of passing spiders.
Here is a spider now. She raises her abdomen and releases a line into the air.
The line catches. She pulls the line taut, anchors her end, and climbs across. Once across, she ambles on.
Behind her the line reads, "A spider was here." So reads the line before, and the line before that. So reads every line in the forest.
The forest is a book written by spiders. It reads, "We spiders are everywhere."